


Nothing Good Comes from Being Gone

by parnase



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fake Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining Enjolras, Political Campaigns, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9085645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parnase/pseuds/parnase
Summary: Enjolras presses his eyes closed. “Tholomyes sent Patron Minette to kill me. Grantaire, he - he came to warn me and…”

“Where is Grantaire now?”


He opens his eyes. “I think he’s dead, ‘Ferre.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So for any of you who have doubts about starting a multi-chapter fic - this is finished. Done. Finito. I thought I would finish it sooner but it's the first multi-chapter I've completed in years (the trick is to write it all out before posting it).  
> The title comes from a flatsound song. Disclaimer: I don't claim to know anything about anything (I think that covers everything)

Enjolras has a hard time understanding Grantaire, is what Combeferre would say.

Combeferre would say that there are many layers to Grantaire, and that just because Enjolras doesn’t often see eye-to-eye with him, it doesn’t mean he isn’t a person worth being understood.

Enjolras would have to disagree. He understands Grantaire perfectly.

It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that he hasn’t had the easiest life. Grantaire tells these stories with the shaking of his fingers, the hunching of his shoulders, the tone of his forced laughter. Enjolras may not know people, but he knows tragedy.

The ends of Grantaire’s brand of tragedy are the beginnings of Enjolras’s frustration. Because Grantaire, whom Feuilly claims can make color and beauty rush from a paintbrush and sweetness ring from a guitar, doesn’t seem to _care_. As though the fight had been beaten out of him and he views the world with a distant apathy. As though nothing touches him more than the bottle at his lips.

Enjolras can’t reconcile it. Idleness is synonymous with stagnation and he _knows_ there’s more to Grantaire than what rests at the bottom of a glass or the lingering taste in a stranger’s mouth, but he looks across the room and sees Grantaire’s dark hair bent low over his glass, and thinks he understands.

The world beat Grantaire into a coward long before Enjolras set eyes on him.

Enjolras keeps his eyes on Grantaire longer than was necessary; Courfeyrac nudges him and the conversation comes back into focus.

“We don’t know anything about his personal life except that his wife died a few years ago - which is a scandal in itself but attacked at every angle; we need something new,” Jehan says.

Combeferre leans forward. “I don’t believe that we should be dragging his family through this mess. If, hypothetically, we were to find some dirt on an uncle, a cousin, his dead wife… who are we to have the authority to put them through that? Expose them to the public eye like that?”

Courfeyrac nods, and opens his mouth to agree, but Enjolras cuts in with, “Do we have a choice?” The table goes quiet but it’s surrounded by the warmth of laughter-filled conversation that makes the topic seem out of place.

“Tholomyes’ campaign has begun to target the minority vote - and we know he can spin that angle. He’s advocating for a decrease in crime statistics, and lowering taxes. This wouldn’t be worrying if he didn’t have Listolier, Fameuil, and Blachevelle positioned on the council with considerable power over minorities _and_ the minimum wage.”

Enjolras doesn’t extend his gaze past Combeferre, Jehan, and Courfeyrac, but he can feel the conversations quietening as the main topic of the evening is touched upon.

“We’re running out of options. We can’t rely on Lamarque targeting the millennials when Tholomyes is gaining support from minorities just to screw them over to keep the middle class satisfied.”

Feuilly twists in his chair to offer, “We can pursue his embezzlement more thoroughly? We’ve attacked his character enough that we’ve been accused of defamation a thousand times already.”

Enjolras shifts in his seat uncomfortably; most of those accusations had been towards _him_ , not the Amis, and with good reason. He’d gotten carried away one too many times online.

“We can’t really go down that road until we have evidence,” Courfeyrac points out. “And we can’t get evidence without doing something illegal.”

“Stealing from the ‘Crime-fighter of New York’ is the kind of irony I’d participate in,” Grantaire adds with a smirk on his lips, raising his bottle in a salute when Enjolras turns his head sharply to look at him. Bahorel and Courfeyrac both grin in agreement.

“We can’t consider breaking the law, and even if we _should_ resort to such measures, we don’t exactly have the means to do so,” Combeferre replies calmly.

Enjolras still has his eyes on Grantaire, because he wants to watch his reaction when he says, “I think we _should_ consider it.”

Grantaire’s bottle drops to the table before he had been able to drink from it, and there’s an amused sort of surprise on his face that isn’t unpleasant. It feels like a victory for Enjolras.

“We don’t meet once a week to discuss issues and fill the required quota for being politically informed,” he continues. “As members of society it is our civic duty to prevent injustice and corruption within our government. And use any means possible to protect the more vulnerable members of our society.”

Feuilly shakes his head. “You can’t bring up the use of crime as a weapon to combat oppression so _casually_. Our lives and careers would be ruined by a conviction.”

“I would rather not go to prison,” Grantaire says with a shrug. “It’s like rehab but with uncomfortable beds and more frequent knife fights.”

“You just said you’d participate-”

Grantaire’s blue eyes are sharper than usual, and they cut through the air between them with meaning that Enjolras fails to grasp. When he says “I never mean what I say, Enjolras,” it’s heavy with words between the lines.

But Enjolras has arguments running through his veins and Grantaire’s statement just serves to irritate him more.

“Why don’t you tell us the truth, for once? Tell us what you really think about all of is.” It’s as much of a plea as it is an order, and Enjolras finds himself holding his breath for the answer.

Grantaire pushes his bottle away, but his eyes don’t leave it. His expression is blank, no forced cheer or gentle mirth that they’re all used to.  
“I think the harder we push, the harder the world pushes back.” He raises his head and finds the whole room looking at him. “I think we’ve gotten enough death threats in the past month or so to constitute a _problem_.” His grin comes back, and it doesn’t lighten his face up but darkens the mood. “I would die following you, Enjolras. I think one day I will.”

The room is tense with shock and worry, and Enjolras can’t quite catch the meaning of the looks Grantaire is given, but he steels himself with a breath and watches as Grantaire finishes his bottle without looking at anyone.

“You may think it’s brave to die for something, but it’s cowardice when you won’t live for anything,” Enjolras says coldly.

“Enjolras-” Jehan hisses, reaching to pull him back in his seat.

“We’re all here because we believe in a better world,” he continues, ignoring Jehan. “You’ve made it clear that you _don’t_ , and I will not let you use this group as an excuse for your self-destructive behavior.”

Grantaire pauses in the act of standing, probably to get another drink, and his expression is dark and thoughtful. He swallows and says, “So what do you want from me then?”

Éponine reaches for him but he steps away. Not towards the bar but towards the exit.

Enjolras watches him and his stomach is dropping. He stands up as well. He doesn’t know whether he wants to stop Grantaire leaving or not, but the decision is taken out of his hands when Éponine stands to leave as well.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre murmurs quietly. “Go after him.”

“And do what? Apologize?” Enjolras answers. For what? For being too harsh, sure, but not for telling the truth.

The door opens and Grantaire stumbles back to avoid getting caught in it. Marius stands there, a smile on his face and red in his cheeks, and he couldn’t have had worse timing.

“Hey Grantaire!” he chirps. He doesn’t notice the heaviness in the air, but he glances over Grantaire’s shoulder to beam at the rest of them. “Hey guys! I brought my girlfriend, Cosette.” His announcement is punctuated by a small girl at his side, smiling politely but no less happily.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Enjolras mutters, sitting back down.

* * *

 

It’s barely six in the morning, and the street is quiet except for an idling black car, sleek enough to catch the eye, and Enjolras brings his coffee up to his face, letting it warm him before he takes a sip.

When he knocks on Courfeyrac’s door he’s already buzzed from the cold morning air and the caffeine, but none of them wake him up as much as seeing Grantaire open the door.

“Pants,” he blurts out, just as Grantaire’s sleepy eyes meet his.

He looks down in confusion. “Uh… I’m not wearing any?” A yawn seems to take him by surprise, and he brushes his hair out of his face.

Enjolras feels the softness of him in that moment and his face is burning. They had both successfully managed to avoid each other for three days now, but Enjolras had conveniently forgotten about the existence of Courfeyrac’s roommate, and now he feels trapped between guilt and confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For the other night. I didn’t mean-”

“ _Courf!_ ” Grantaire calls. He takes the other coffee in Enjolras’ hand and sips it experimentally. “I’m not interested in an apology,” he mutters. There’s no bitterness in his voice but Enjolras can’t help wondering if that’s only because he’s just woken up. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He takes another sip. “But next time don’t put as much sugar in Courfeyrac’s coffee, he’s been jittery all week.”

Enjolras is stunned, to say the least. That Grantaire can so casually _dismiss_ not only his harsh words but everything he himself said is not what he expected.

Courfeyrac bursts out of his room into the living room behind Grantaire, stumbling as he tugs his jeans on. Instead of passing him the coffee, Grantaire grabs a wallet off the kitchen counter and tugs some money out of it to pass to him.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Grantaire calls out with a smirk, and Enjolras thinks he’s talking to Courfeyrac until there’s a sleepy but elegant “fuck you” from the sofa.

A head pops up, dark and unkempt hair atop it, and a gracefully beautiful man sits up and takes the coffee Grantaire offers him.

“Who is that?” Enjolras asks Courfeyrac when he reaches the door.

“Hmm? Oh that’s Montparnasse. Éponine's friend.” There’s a tightness in Courfeyrac’s tone that could be wariness if he had ever known Courfeyrac to be wary, and Enjolras sneaks another look at Montparnasse.

He and Grantaire are sitting dangerously close, and Enjolras can guess from the smirk on his face that Montparnasse’s voice is low and flirty. His grin exposes teeth and it’s not hard to imagine them as dangerous as fangs, his smile as dangerous as a snarl, his fingers able to inflict more damage than a knife.

Courfeyrac grabs Enjolras’ arm. “See you later!” he says to Grantaire, pointedly ignoring Montparnasse.

Grantaire looks up at Enjolras and his face sobers for a moment. Enjolras wonders if he’ll ever put a smile on Grantaire’s face like that.

“I’ll see you at the meeting, right? On Thursday?” Enjolras asks. He has to struggle to keep his voice even instead of imploring.

“I have work,” Grantaire answers slowly. Montparnasse gives Enjolras a sharp smile.

“Oh.” He fingers the strap of his bag awkwardly. Grantaire always makes it to the meetings.

He wonders if he’s ruined any chance of civility between him and Grantaire. He wonders if he’ll ever have his company again. He wonders if this is the reason why Jehan hasn’t talked to him in days.

Grantaire’s face softens as he pulls Montparnasse’s manicured hand from his thigh. “I’ll try and switch shifts.”

Once they’re out the door, Courfeyrac squeezes Enjolras’ arm once and lets go to immediately dive into a discussion about their next class, and Enjolras has to stop him with a hand to his chest.

“Are they dating?” he asks bluntly. He thinks of Montparnasse’s slender fingers and shark-like smile and wants to shudder.

Courfeyrac shrugs. “I don’t think so. Grantaire’s not the kind of guy to force his significant other to sleep on the couch, you know?”

Enjolras doesn’t know, but he can imagine. He thinks of the times when Grantaire has made Jehan blush by presenting them with flowers, how he’ll recite a sonnet with love on his lips and flirt with Louison with gentle touches. He’s beginning to think there’s more to Grantaire than Enjolras understands.

“But Montparnasse…” Courfeyrac trails off to catch his thoughts. “He turned up looking for Éponine, greeted Grantaire like they’ve been inseparable since birth. But he’s pretty shifty.”

Enjolras clears his throat. “He’s enigmatic.”

Courfeyrac snorts. “You don’t know the half of it. I think he’s in a gang. Or like, the leader of a gang.” He pauses, and comical horror (or it would be comical but Courfeyrac is dramatic enough that it’s probably genuine) covers his face. “What if we’re harboring a fugitive?”

Enjolras pats his shoulder and walks on. “I can’t help you there, Courf,” he replies, and listens to his wildly unrealistic theories until they arrive at class.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “‘Parnasse,” Grantaire says evenly. His grip tightens on Enjolras’ arm. “Please. You don’t have to do this.”

When Enjolras walks into the Musain that Thursday, he sees Grantaire and Éponine, sitting close together and wearing matching postures of tense defensiveness. He walks over to them before he knows what he’s doing.

Grantaire watches him make his way over with wary eyes, and his gaze makes Enjolras feel as though he’s being assessed as a threat. “I’m glad you made it,” he says earnestly.

Éponine snorts and stands up. “I’m getting more drinks,” she mutters, and they both watch her go.

“The other day you wouldn’t let me apologize.”

Grantaire casts a mournful look at his already-empty bottle. “Do we have to do this? Usually we just pretend it never happened.”

Enjolras clenches his jaw. The fact that they manage to have explosive arguments that almost always end up with Grantaire hurt so frequently that there’s a ‘usually’ is something he had been trying to ignore.

“I shouldn’t-”

“Stop,” Grantaire interrupts. He sounds tired, and he sounds sad, and Enjolras hates that he can’t seem to do anything about it. That Grantaire won’t let him do anything about it. “I don’t care that you have some half-assed apology to make yourself feel better lined up, okay? You have nothing to apologize for.” He taps his fingers against his bottle in an erratic beat that matches the beating of Enjolras’ heart. There’s dark blue nail polish coating his nails, with white dots that look like stars. “I don’t believe in apologies, anyway. They’re just words.”

Enjolras can’t do anything with that. He can’t promise to apologize with his actions, because everything about Grantaire, from the beginning, has caused Enjolras to act impulsively and erratically. The flavour of their relationship brings out the irrational.

Grantaire doesn’t smile, but it’s a near thing. “We’re good, Enjolras. Back to normal. Chill out.”

It’s a clear dismissal that Enjolras follows, and as he makes his way to Combeferre at the front of the room, he takes a moment to identify why he doesn’t feel as _whole_ as he should.

Combeferre smiles when he sits down. “You look more relaxed than you have all week. I’m guessing that Grantaire doesn’t hate you then?”

Enjolras scowls at his hands. “He’s impossible,” he mutters.

There’s a reassuring pat on his shoulder, but from Combeferre it just feels smug. “You’re just unused to dealing with normal human emotions. We've enabled you too much.”

Enjolras huffs a sigh and rests his head in his hand. “Have we got any new angles on Tholomyes?” he asks wearily, already knowing the answer.

“Since the last time you asked me? Nothing has changed in the past twelve minutes. You need some sleep,” he notes with concern.

“He’ll sleep when the patriarchy is dead!” announces Courfeyrac cheerfully, hugging Enjolras and planting a kiss on his cheek. “And before you ask - no, nothing has changed in the past hour, Tholomyes is still an evil, elusive bastard.”

Combeferre watches him with amusement, but before he can say anything, the door bangs open wildly, and Bossuet falls into the room, Joly right on his heels.

“Dudes,” he pants, hunched over with his hands on his knees. “ _Dudes_.”

Joly hovers over him with a hand on his stomach. “Breathe,” he urges gently, worry etched into the laughter lines around his eyes. “Slowly.”

“What’s going on?” Éponine asks as she hands Grantaire a glass of some spirit. She doesn’t look fazed.

“We.... we’re being _followed_ ,” Bossuet says. He straightens and falls into the chair next to Grantaire. “Or at least, I was.”

Enjolras leans forward. “Explain.”

Joly twists his cane in his hands and brushes a hand through his hair. “We’ve been noticing a few cars around - shiny, expensive ones. But we didn’t realize until…”

“Until I tripped over my shoelace and saw a _camera_ in the front seat.” Bossuet steals Grantaire’s glass and drinks from it, grimacing at the taste.

Combeferre looks uncertain. “I don’t think we should jump to conclusions-”

“No,” Enjolras interrupts. “I’ve seen some cars around as well. Outside the campus, my apartment... “

“Brilliant,” Grantaire snorts. “Does anyone perhaps have an unhinged ex rich enough to have us all followed?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “I think I have one or two, but I haven’t dated anyone in months.”

Éponine smirks from behind her glass. “I might have some.”

“You need to veto your sugar daddies, Ép, honestly,” Grantaire mutters.

“You need to _get_ some sugar daddies. When was the last time you went clothes shopping? I’ve seen you wear that shirt every day for the past two weeks.”

“That’s not because he’s poor and has no clothes,” Courfeyrac interjects. “It’s because he never does the laundry. He’s afraid of the washing machine.”

“I am _not_. I’m terrified of it. Last month it-”

“What if it’s Tholomyes?” Enjolras says. The room goes quiet.

Grantaire sits up. “Or it could be any number of people you’ve pissed off recently, Enjolras. The list is endless.”

“If it’s Tholomyes,” Combeferre says, “then something has him spooked. We must be getting close to something.”

Éponine leans back in her chair, tipping it back on two legs. “I couldn’t care if we’re a step away from destroying his campaign; if a politician is following us, it’s dangerous. He could make a call and get us all killed _tonight_ if he wanted to.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” Joly says, his eyes wide. “I’m sure he wouldn’t just _kill_ people that casually. This is America.”

Grantaire snorts, and Enjolras shares the sentiment. “America is one of the _least_ peaceful ‘developed country’ in the western civilization. Politics equates to war. It’s very likely that we could all get killed tonight.” He meets Enjolras’ eyes and looks away quickly, and Enjolras is reminded of his words at the last meeting.

_I would die following you, Enjolras. I think one day I will._

“But I don’t know anything,” he dismisses, just as everyone starts arriving. Enjolras finds himself staring at Éponine, whose scowl sets in deeper as more people arrive. She looks away when Marius and Cosette enter, and Grantaire throws an arm around her while he starts up a conversation with her and Bahorel.

When Cosette approaches him, before everyone has had time to settle - including Enjolras’ tangled mess of emotions after Grantaire’s comments - he tries to shove his discomfit aside. He isn’t interested in hearing about Marius’ relationships. They’re the furthest thing from his mind, and one of the most tedious and inconsequential topics he would want to discuss, but Cosette sits down next to him, gives him a small smile, and skips the pleasantries.

“My name is Cosette Fauchelevent,” she starts. “But I was born as Euphrasie Tholomyes.”

And that changes everything.

Combeferre tenses beside him, and Marius shuffles his feet before sitting down hesitantly next to Cosette.

“Tholomyes is your father,” Enjolras states, just to be clear that he heard her properly.

She nods. “And Fantine was my mother.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Courfeyrac mutters.

“Why are you here?” Combeferre asks, his voice gentle, not betraying any shock or confusion.

Cosette tucks a curl of brown hair behind her ear. “I didn’t realize until last week that you were all focused on his campaign. Marius didn’t talk about it much. When I realized what you were trying to do…” She shrugs. “I want to help.”

Enjolras gives her a long, assessing look. “You want to help us destroy your father’s campaign? Why?”

She gives him a sharp look and sets her jaw. “Because I can, and because I must. My real father, the man who adopted me, changed my name to _hide_ me from him.”

Enjolras feels as though he needs to start writing things down, but he doesn’t think he’ll forget anything Cosette says.

“How can you help? What do you know?”

She grins, and while her sweetness definitely matches Marius’, her grin is all steel and determination. “Enough to make him lose.”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says, not taking his eyes off Cosette. “Take notes.”

When Cosette starts speaking, Enjolras notices that the whole room had gone quiet, and they’ve all crowded closer to hear her.

“He used to hit my mother. Constantly. Daily. He was usually in control enough to do it where no one would notice but… He’d do it when she was pregnant with me, and after I was born. I was only six when he started shouting at me. He never hit me, but I remember he would always be in a foul mood after he’d visited some club.

“One night he came home, and he was in a really good mood. I don’t remember most of what he said, but my mother told me he had started to make deals and he was going to pay off our debts by embezzling money if he became the chair of the Finance Committee on the council.”

Everyone looks at each other with that sentence, wide eyes and the beginnings of triumphant grins.

Cosette swallowed down emotion and Marius reached forward to take her hand. “She… He was at work, and she had taken the day off and taken me out of school. She stole some papers and videos that Tholomyes had - stuff he’d use to blackmail people into silence, and official documents-” She shakes her head. “He came home early. My mother got scared and she gave me everything, told me to go to the some people she had been planning on staying with. The Thénardiers.” Enjolras glances at Éponine, but Grantaire is sitting alone. He didn’t notice her leaving.

“I went out the back door while she distracted him. When he realized what had happened he beat her so badly…”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. The air in the room was thick and heavy with horror.

“I hid everything and the Thénardiers let me live with them until they sold me.”

“ _Sold you_?” Combeferre repeats, his hand clenched around his pencil.

She nods, and smiles sadly. “The best thing that happened to me. My father is a good man, he saw it was the only way to get me out of a bad situation. I was nine.”

Marius frowns. “You didn’t tell me you went to the _Thénardiers_.”

Cosette looked at him warily. “Do you know them?” she asks softly.

Enjolras chances a look at Grantaire, who doesn’t appear to be listening at all, but his glass is empty and he keeps his eyes on Éponine's vacated seat.

“Éponineis a good friend of mine,” Marius answers in confusion. “I thought I saw her before, she’s usually here with Grantaire.”

Cosette inhales sharply and looks around, her eyes wide. “Isn’t it funny how our lives have collided like this?” she says faintly.

Marius blushes and wraps his arms around her, and Enjolras looks at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “We’ve got what we need.”

Courfeyrac smiles brightly. “ _Finally_ ,” he breathes.

Cosette untangles herself from Marius. “So what do we do, then?”

“We use the evidence you have to expose Tholomyes.”

“Hold on,” says the usual voice of dissent. Enjolras grits his teeth. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Enjolras whirls around in his seat and fixes Grantaire with a glare. “Now is really not the best time for your shit, Grantaire.”

“I’m _serious_. Or have you forgotten that we’re being _followed_?”

That causes some exclamation to go up in the room, and everyone starts talking at once.

“- I _knew_ that lady with the dog was looking at me funny, do you - “

“ - left my apartment in tears yesterday and you’re telling me they _saw_ that - “

“ - shit, I’ve had like, five one-night stands in the past week alone - “

Combeferre takes his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose and Courfeyrac snickers as Bossuet tries to reenact his most embarrassing recent moments.

“All the more reason to take direct action as soon as possible,” Enjolras replies smoothly, cutting through the conversations. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

Grantaire puts his glass down. Enjolras has never seen him so focused and serious before.

“This man _killed his wife_. He is a corrupt politician who would have no problem taking out a few university students with big mouths,” Grantaire points out.

“So do we just sit on this information and let this man become our mayor?” Enjolras asks, his voice getting heated. They shouldn’t be having this conversation. It’s a waste of their time, they should be _planning_ , moving forward.

“ _Yes!_ ” Grantaire stands up. “You’re going to get us all killed, Enjolras!”

“Grantaire-” Feuilly starts, tugging on his sleeve.

Enjolras makes sure his voice is heard as he says, “Think of the hundreds - thousands - who will die if he lowers the minimum wage to pay off his bribery.”

Grantaire shrugs Feuilly off and stalks up to Enjolras. “I’m not going to stand by and _watch_ as you get my friends killed.” he snarls, leaning his face close enough to Enjolras’ that he can smell the liquor on his breath and count the freckles on his cheeks. His eyes are clear and bright with rage, and it’s as much stunning as it is irritating.

“Then leave,” Enjolras says simply.

Grantaire stays there for another moment, every tense muscle radiating anger and fear. And then he steps back, leaving the space in front of Enjolras’ face empty and cold, and he walks out the door.

The whole room is silent, and Enjolras braces himself for more dissent, for someone else to walk out and save their own skin. He wouldn’t blame them.

But he looks around and sees no reluctance. They all stay, and they all wear the same look of determination and purpose.

“Is someone going to pay for his drinks?” Louison calls out from the doorway leading to the bar.

* * *

That night, Enjolras studies. Because while they currently holds the fate of New York politics in his hands, he’s still a university student and he still has deadlines approaching.

He texts Marius to bring all of Cosette’s evidence - and Cosette - to his apartment in the morning, and his phone dies just as he’s texting Combeferre to meet him then as well.

He tosses it on the couch and directs his attention to the pile of textbooks on the floor beside him with distaste. His hands come up to tuck his hair into a casual bun, and gets to work.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he next looks up, but his legs are numb, so he deduces that it’s time for a break.

His mind is still buzzing on the rush of the night’s events, and his excitement overshadows the disappointment of his latest fight with Grantaire. He doesn’t _understand_ , doesn’t realize that they are, at heart, a group of activists that take _action_. Enjolras can stage as many protests as he wants, he can write as many impulsive and irritated comments and blog posts online, but when he has the opportunity to actually _do_ something, he can’t in good conscience pass it up.

The clock on the microwave tells him it’s twenty-four minutes past midnight. Enjolras grabs a banana from his fruit bowl and plugs his phone in.

There’s a buzz at his door, and it cuts through the quiet of his apartment so sharply that he drops the banana.

There’s a number of possible candidates for this time of the night - Courfeyrac, drunk. Jehan, drunk. Combeferre, in an emergency. Bahorel, drunk. None of these possibilities are what Enjolras wants to deal with.

He presses the button. “Who is it?”

The reply is instant. “It’s Grantaire. Let me up. _Now_.” He’s urgent and panicked, there’s an unusual note of fear in his voice that puts Enjolras on edge.

He lets him up without a second thought.

Grantaire is opening his door before he can formulate a theory as to why he is in such a state so late at night.

“What are you-”

Grantaire pushes past him, his eyes wildly flying around the living room. “You need to leave, right now.”

Enjolras follows him into the apartment as he looks out the window.

“What the hell is going on?” he demands.

Grantaire throws him a pained look before his eyes continues scanning the place. “Just do what I say for _once_ in your life, Enjolras.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “Not until you tell me _what is going on_.”

“Tholomyes is sending Patron Minette to kill you,” Grantaire answers, and there’s a note of hysteria in there somewhere. “Please, just-”

“ _Patron Minette_?” Enjolras repeats incredulously. Patron Minette are infamous, connected to several homicides and burglaries over the last couple of years and seemingly impossible to catch. “How did you-”

Grantaire takes a hold of his arm and starts tugging him away from the window. “Montparnasse told me, let's _go_.”

And that’s when everything goes horribly wrong.

Enjolras isn’t looking at anything but Grantaire, so he doesn’t see the person holding the gun until Grantaire freezes. All the breath leaves him and Enjolras looks up to see Montparnasse, with a gun. There’s two other men behind him, one impossibly large and the other comically small, but Montparnasse is the one with the gun pointed at them.

“‘Parnasse,” Grantaire says evenly. His grip tightens on Enjolras’ arm. “Please. You don’t have to do this.”

That sharp smile reappears, and Enjolras finds his fingers curling in Grantaire’s sleeve with the need to pull him closer. He can’t look away from the barrel of the gun. It has a silencer attached to it, and that one act of premeditation makes his blood run cold.

The trigger is pulled and Enjolras flinches, but he hears the air get sliced just past his ear and there’s the sobering sound of glass shattering to break through his fear. He has a second to glance at Grantaire in confusion before he’s pushed back roughly.

The other men start swearing, reaching for their guns while Montparnasse stands there, silent and still.

An unsilenced shot rings out, and Enjolras jerks back. His legs catch on the wall and he’s falling.

The sick anticipation of hitting the ground is unbearable, and the air rushes from his lungs quicker than he can gather it to shout.

He closes his eyes, and lands very hard on something that isn’t the pavement below but the awning of the cafe a floor below his apartment. Before he can steady himself, he rolls over the edge and the impact with the pavement whites his vision out for a moment.

He lies there for a second, uncomprehendingly. Everything is quiet. And then, a single, deafening gunshot.

The sharp inhale prompts a deep and sudden ache in his chest.

He rolls onto his back, gritting his teeth against the pain in his right arm. Makes it to his feet.

He clutches his arm and walks away as fast as he can. He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He fell out the window!! Oh my god all my ideas are so original  
> Thanks for reading!! The next chapter will go up within two to three days.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras presses his eyes closed. “Tholomyes sent Patron Minette to kill me. Grantaire, he - he came to warn me and…”
> 
> “Where is Grantaire now?”

 

Combeferre answers the door just before Enjolras gives up. His friend is bleary-eyed with a blank face that quickly morphs into horror when he sees him.

Enjolras gave himself a once-over in a shop window on the way there. His shirt is torn, his face and neck scratched up from the glass of his window, deep bruises on his cheekbone and collarbone from the landing, and blood oozing from a bullet wound in his bicep. The pain is the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Combeferre leads him inside and locks the door behind them, but Enjolras still stands, as taut as a bow, not moving.

“Are you alright?” is all he asks, trying for a gentle and calm voice but missing it by a mile. He reaches out and Enjolras lets himself be touched, lets Combeferre assess the damage. He doesn’t feel the warm touch of his fingers on the cuts on his cheek and neck, but when Combeferre takes his hoodie off and sees the bullet wound, just below his t-shirt sleeve, his harsh inhale brings Enjolras back into himself.

He takes a deep breath that gets stuck in his throat on the way out and meets Combeferre’s wide, confused eyes. “I…” He doesn’t want to say it, because if he ignores it, it never happened and nothing changed, but there’s blood smeared all down his arm and he’s not sure if he could ever scrub it clean. If he could ever get rid of it.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, his voice low and quiet as though he were speaking to a frightened child, “what happened?”

Enjolras tries to take another breath but it keeps getting stuck. “You have to - you have to get everyone here. We need a meeting. Right now. I have to tell them-” His words are stolen by another breath, but the sickness in his stomach only grows.

Combeferre waits for a second before asking, “Tell them what?”

Enjolras presses his eyes closed. “Tholomyes sent Patron Minette to kill me. Grantaire, he - he came to warn me and…”

“Where is Grantaire now?”

He opens his eyes. “I think he’s dead, ‘Ferre.”

Combeferre shakes his head, and his composure, already weak when he saw Enjolras, crumbles in front of him. “He… _Grantaire_?” He looks shaken, and Enjolras thinks of chess games and quiet amusement and surprised laughter, but that gunshot replays in his mind and it’s taken something from both of them now.

Enjolras sways a little on his feet and Combeferre’s arms come up to hold him still. “I… We need to get you to the hospital,” he says faintly.

“No,” Enjolras replies, taking a breath to steel himself. “This is _Patron Minette_ , ‘Ferre. If I checked in the hospital they’d find a way to kill me in there.”

Combeferre nods immediately, and Enjolras is grateful that he doesn’t press it. He lets Combeferre guide him to the couch, but when he does to sit down he bites his tongue to hold back the groan of pain.

After the bullet had been taken out with less-than-adequate household items, and once the wounds had been stitched and bandaged, Enjolras watches Combeferre with blank eyes as he messaged everyone.

He glances at the screen of Combeferre’s phone when his friend inhales sharply, and exhales shakily.

 **[Courf]** **_:_ ** _Sounds serious. Be there in ten. Cant find R tho_

Combeferre drops the phone on the couch. “Are you sure… Did you see-”

Enjolras shakes his head and tries to say something comforting, or something true, but his mouth opens without sound, one more thing taken from him.

Combeferre understands that Enjolras can only tell the story once, he can only _relive_ those brief moments once.

* * *

There is a silence he can’t stand when he manages to tell them all. It’s a canvas for the sound of a single, clear gunshot to ring through, over and over.

Bahorel stands up. He had informed them that Feuilly was working a late shift, and without Feuilly to calm him he has the hard edges of anger in his curled fist and clenched jaw.

“You - _left him there_?” His voice is broken and his pain is carved in lines across his face.

Enjolras can’t meet his eyes. He has nothing left to say. He doesn’t think he _can_ say anything else. There’s a heavy weight settling in his bones, dragging him down and stealing the fight from him.

“It’s Patron Minette, Bahorel,” Éponine reminds him quietly. “They would have… they don’t leave loose ends. Enjolras would have had nothing to come back to but - “ She cuts a look towards Enjolras, “his own death.”

Enjolras stares at how she holds herself. Her phone rests in her lap, and her head is tilted upwards as though it’s taking all of her willpower not to look down at it. He didn’t mention Montparnasse’s name - he didn’t want to see Courfeyrac’s face when he did - but she must _know_.

Éponine is a creature of tragedy herself, and Enjolras wonders if that makes this any easier.

Cosette detaches herself from Marius, who had begun to tear up and cling to her in need of comfort, and she stands in front of Éponine.

Someone is trying to talk to Enjolras but he can only watch as Cosette says something calm and quiet, and Éponine reply with a harsh twist to her mouth, stand up and walk past her, barely brushing shoulders, slamming the door on her way out.

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Courfeyrac stresses, and suddenly his face, pale and tearful, is in front of him and he’s enveloped in a hug.

“I’m so sorry,” Courfeyrac whispers in his ear, an urgent importance attached to the words. He pulls back and wipes at his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something more but Enjolras curls his hands in Courfeyrac’s shirt and pulls him back in, this hug fierce and full of sentiments Enjolras doesn’t know how to say.

Something in Enjolras quietens. He has all of his friends here - bar Eponine and Feuilly - and they’re all safe, and there’s an exception to this but Grantaire almost fills the room in the way that someone fills the room when their presence is in everyone’s thoughts.

He thinks about all he could say - _I’m sorry_ and _it’s my fault_ and _I didn’t deserve him as much as all of you did_ but he thinks they know this anyway. He _hopes_ they do, because he doesn’t want to say these things. They’re just words. They don’t help.

Musichetta rubs a hand down her face, streaking her make-up - they had been clubbing before they got the message - and mumbles, “What do we do now?”

They all look to Enjolras and Combeferre, and Enjolras wants nothing more than the decision to be taken out of his hands. But he glances at Cosette, holding a large tote bag and holding herself stronger than the rest of him, and says, “We get rid of Tholomyes.”

He would be lying if he said this wasn’t some sort of revenge, but he knows that a defamed and arrested politician won’t make the sharp stabbing in his chest go away, won’t wipe the tears off his friend’s faces.

He just needs to stop it from happening ever again. He owes them all that.

* * *

The sky is lighter by the time everyone has left, and Cosette, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre sit at the table, documents scattered everywhere and a sense of purpose masking the fresh pain of losing Grantaire. Enjolras had stubbornly refused a shower and a bed to rest in, and he blinked away fatigue.

“This is _definitely_ enough information to put him away for a very long time,” Courfeyrac says, rifling through credit details and bank statements. “And it implicates Listolier, Fameuil, and Blachevelle as well. Getting them out of office is important considering how they’ve fucked over minorities with these new policies.”

Enjolras eyes the painkillers on the bench, but out of some characteristically-masochistic hindrance decides to grit his teeth and bear with the pain. His arm is screaming, every little movement tearing the flesh even though Joly had made him a sling to keep his arm steady.

“It won’t be worth shit if we don’t hand the information to the right person,” he points out tiredly. “We know first-hand how corrupt the police are in this city.”

Cosette gives the table a tiny frown. “We could hand it to Lemarque? Let her take it from there?”

Combeferre is shaking his head before she finishes her sentence. “Anything that can be traced directly to Lemarque and her campaign can be attacked and written off as false. The media would defame her. No, we need someone unconnected to the campaign but still in a position of authority.”

“Preferably someone who believes in justice,” Enjolras adds. “Someone who wouldn’t take bribes or wouldn’t be easily intimidated.”

Cosette snaps her fingers. “Javert!” she exclaims.

Everyone looks at her uncomprehendingly.

“He - My dad knows him,” she says. “He has a very black-and-white view on justice and the law, he may be willing to help.”

“Knows him how?” Courfeyrac asks suspiciously.

She flushes. “He may have - uh, _arrested_ my dad once or twice. But he’s a good man,” she adds hastily. “I just need to convince my father to get in touch with him.”

“How? By committing a crime?”

Cosette grimaces and decides not to answer.

There’s a sharp trill, and Courfeyrac digs his phone out of his jeans. He frowns when he reads the message. “Éponine has gone out of town for a week or two. She wants me to take care of Gavroche.”

Enjolras sits up straighter, allowing himself a small exhale in pain. “She can’t leave,” he says. “Not until this is all over.”

Cosette watches them talk with a keen, interested eye.

“I think you find she is,” Combeferre points out. “She can’t be in any danger-”

“Montparnasse was there,” Enjolras cuts in.

“ _What_?” Courfeyrac’s eyebrows are drawn together in confusion.

Enjolras twists the fabric of his sweatpants and bites back whatever is rising in his throat. “He was the one who… Who shot the window.”

Courfeyrac stands up abruptly, almost tipping his chair and taking a few steps back. “No, no it couldn’t have been him, Enjolras. He _adored_ Grantaire. He would never-” He cuts himself off with a sharp breath, and then more keep coming in panicked gasps. It’s painful to hear, and Combeferre rushes to his side, attempting to coax deep, drawn-out breaths from him.

Enjolras wants to stand up and comfort his friend as well but it takes all of his energy to keep himself from throwing up, and he’s suddenly so, so tired.

* * *

“I went to your apartment,” is the first thing Bahorel says when he walks into Combeferre’s bedroom that morning. Enjolras had been staring at the ceiling, fear keeping his eyes wide open. He flinches when the door opens.

Enjolras sits up. “What - did you-”

“I didn’t see anything.” Bahorel brushes a hand through his hair. “No blood, no glass - but you still need to get your window replaced. Your landlord ambushed me. Asked where you were.”

“What did you say?”

He shrugs. “I said I didn’t know. Figured it’s best for you to stay out of the public eye for now.”

Enjolras lets out a breath, but there’s still something heavy in his lungs that refuses to be displaced. “Combeferre said the same thing. Says I should lay low until it’s all in the open.”

Bahorel sits on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel about that?” he asks casually.

Enjolras lets out a small huff, a bitter laugh. “Relieved. I don’t want to deal with anyone right now.”

Bahorel nods. “Patron Minette may be willing to let you live as long as you keep your head down. If you’re not stirring shit up, Tholomyes won’t make them take a second shot.”

Enjolras clenches his fists at that. “Cosette is taking the information to Javert tonight. By tomorrow, the whole city will know what he’s done.”

“Then you’ll go to the hospital?” Bahorel asks dryly.

“How’s Feuilly?”

He sighs. “R was important to him, you know? He doesn’t like losing people.”

Enjolras gives him a once-over, taking in the flat hair and mismatched clothing. “How are you?”

Bahorel is silent for a few moments. “He was my best friend. I… I don’t think I can get over this. The worst thing is that he never _knew._ ”

“Knew what?” Enjolras asks quietly. He’s suddenly hungry for the parts of Grantaire he had never learned and now never will learn.

“Knew how much he mattered. We told him, but he never believed, you know?” He glances at Enjolras. “I hate talking about him like this.”

Enjolras stares down at his hands. Anything he says would be weak. _I wish he had let me know the best parts of him_ sounds shallow. Enjolras was the constant recipient of Grantaire’s pessimism and sarcasm. He glimpsed the beauty in him often, but Enjolras had never let that be enough.

He never understood Grantaire.

“Cosette told Javert about… all of it. About Grantaire. He said he would inform his family.” He swallows past the lump in his throat.

Bahorel pats his ankle. “Let me know if you need anything.” He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and brings out Enjolras’ phone, dropping it lightly on the bed.

Once Bahorel leaves, Enjolras is left with the sound of Courfeyrac cooking in the kitchen, something he often did when his emotions started to take a hold of him. _He’s probably avoiding his apartment_ , Enjolras thinks.

He eases out of bed and walks into the living room. Courfeyrac spots him and his face seems to get sadder. He gestures for him to sit at the table and starts to serve up pasta.

“Aren’t you meant to be taking care of Gavroche?”

Courfeyrac shrugs and hands Enjolras a plate. “Ép texted to say he snuck into her car and she didn’t know until she was out of the city.”

Enjolras stares down at the meal. Steam rises from it, and objectively Enjolras knows it smells good but it still makes his stomach turn.

Courfeyrac sits across from him and points a stern fork at him. “You’re pale as fuck, Enjolras, you need to eat.”

Enjolras glares at the pasta. “I feel like I’m going to throw it all up.”

Courfeyrac musters a small smile. “That would be one way to critique my cooking. Rather dramatic, if you ask me.”

Enjolras sighs and picks up the fork. “Where’s ‘Ferre?”

“Work.”

“Why are you here?”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes at him. “Do you seriously think I’m going to leave you here alone?”

Enjolras is quiet for a moment. He eats a quarter of the pasta before he feels the need to throw up, and pushes the plate away. Courfeyrac doesn’t look like he’s eaten much more than him.

“I didn’t get any sleep,” Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac pauses before dropping his fork on his plate. “I have some sleeping pills if you want them.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Enjolras clarifies.

Courfeyrac sighs. “Enjolras…”

“You and ‘Ferre didn’t get any sleep,” he points out.

“Combeferre and I didn’t get shot and fall out a window,” Courfeyrac points out with a pale face.

Enjolras exhales gently. “I didn’t fall,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“I didn’t fall,” he repeats. “He pushed me.” He remembers it now. Grantaire’s hand flat against his chest. Pushing him harder than he could resist. Reliving the memory, Enjolras expects there to be an imprint where Grantaire’s burning palm had touched him.

Courfeyrac looks as though he’s about to cry, but he holds it in to say, “He’s a terrible roommate. Was.”

“What?”

“He always left the milk out, and he made the apartment smell like paint and nail polish.”

Enjolras tries to swallow but his mouth is dry. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks softly.

Courfeyrac shrugs. “You didn’t know him that well.”

Enjolras leans forward, and for the first time in hours the pain in his shoulder seems to dull a little bit. “Tell me more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway if _anything_ is wrong please tell me. I would rather you pointed it out than I continue living life in ignorance. Thanks for reading!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “-top shelf, Louison,” a voice breaks though. It’s not particularly loud - in fact, the distinct hush in his tone suggests an attempt at softness - but Enjolras’ mind is blank and he turns in his seat and-

**[Cosette]:** ** _he’s taking it to the ny times right now_** is the message that Combeferre shows him that night.

“How long do you think it will take?” Enjolras asks him.

Combeferre shrugs. His ruffled clothing and unruly hair serve to make him look more vulnerable than Enjolras had seen him in a long time. “It’s a big story. They’ll have people working on it all night. If we’re lucky, it’ll be in tomorrow’s paper.” He pauses, hesitating on something he wants to say. “Have… What are we going to do about Grantaire?”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asks, looking down at the book he’d been trying to read for the past two hours.

“We don’t have a body. No evidence that... “ He clears his throat. “No evidence that he’s dead. What do we tell his family?”

Courfeyrac had told Enjolras about Grantaire’s family. A mother and stepfather, barely in touch. A little sister that looks up to him, in dancing school.

“Have you heard back from Javert?” Combeferre continues.

Enjolras closes the book. “I…” He doesn’t have a plan for this. He doesn’t think he can deal with this particular problem, not when the mention of Grantaire’s name causes his stomach to rise and drop and his fingers shake.

Combeferre takes the book from him gently. “I suppose we can deal with it after Tholomyes is exposed.”

Enjolras nods gratefully. “How, uh… How was work?”

Combeferre gives Enjolras a long, searching look before his voice starts off in gentle waves, describing the mundanity of a student librarian’s life. The comfort of the normal, the mundane, eases Enjolras’ mind, and he finds himself dropping his head to Combeferre’s shoulder.

* * *

The headline reads  **THE “CRIMEFIGHTER” OF NEW YORK** with a picture of Tholomyes and Fantine. Halfway down the page is a small picture of nine year-old Cosette. The article is read through five times before Enjolras can stand to put it down.

Tholomyes is taken in for questioning later that day.

Enjolras knows, rationally, that he can breathe easy now. That the target off his back is likely lifted, and that he can go to the hospital, get stronger painkillers, and sleep soundly.

But he sees the barrel of a gun when he closes his eyes and a gunshot when someone closes a door. He looks out of the window, at all the people walking past, and buttons up his coat with shaking fingers.

“Where are you going?” Courfeyrac asks from behind him, a spatula in hand and wearing a polka-dot apron Enjolras is sure he bought Combeferre for his birthday one year.

He gestures out the window. “To get coffee.”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes. “You look a little pale, there.”

Enjolras steels himself with a breath. “If I don’t get out now, I’ll be stuck in here.”

Courfeyrac nods after a short while, and grabs his woolen beanie off the couch, sticking it on Enjolras’ head less than delicately.

“Where are you really going?” he asks gently, because Courfeyrac has been his best friend since kindergarten and even if he didn’t know Enjolras better than he knows himself, Enjolras is a terrible liar.

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair. “I’m going to my apartment.” 

Courfeyrac nods and clutches the spatula tighter. He bites his lip before hesitantly asking. “My apartment is on the way, I’ll come with you.”

Enjolras eyes him for a moment, because Courfeyrac has practically lived at Combeferre’s for the past couple of days, and has averted any discussion that may lead to the topic of him going home.

Walking out onto the sidewalk, being hit with the sudden and relevant existence of the rest of the world, is jarring for a few minutes. Enjolras keeps seeing something in the contradictions of easy gaits and tense shoulders, or the sharp smile of a stranger, and his arm throbs.

Courfeyrac notices his discomfit and throws an arm around his shoulders. “Is Javert investigating Montparnasse?” he asks quietly.

Enjolras nods. “Once everything with Tholomyes calmed down, he rang me. I think Cosette had a talk with him. He told me he wouldn’t question me until I’ve recovered more.” His smirk is dry and bitter. “You can imagine how much that frustrates me.”

“He should be getting your statement! The longer he waits, the deeper underground Montparnasse will go!” Courfeyrac exclaims.

“I don’t think he’s too optimistic about being able to find Montparnasse,” Enjolras replies. “Or Grantaire’s body.”

Courfeyrac’s arm tightens around him. “I didn’t… I didn’t even think about that. His body, I mean.” 

“I don’t think it matters. Without him… his body isn’t-” Enjolras cuts off, drawing in a sharp breath and staring down at his feet. Combeferre’s shoes are two sizes too big and they look large and unnatural on him.

Courfeyrac hums as though he agrees, even though Enjolras doesn’t know what he was trying to say. “But still. It would provide closure.”

Enjolras clenches his fingers at the use of the word  _ it _ but nods his head. “I suppose it would.”

They walk up to the apartment automatically, and Enjolras would have been able to make the journey blindfolded. He goes to Courfeyrac’s apartment pretty often. It was the most common civil ground that he and Grantaire met on. He got to know more about Éponine and Grantaire’s lives waiting for Courfeyrac before class than he did at any meeting.

Courfeyrac hovers by the door for a second before squaring his shoulders and bursting inside, like ripping off a bandaid. Enjolras peers warily over his shoulder.

It’s tidy, tidier than it usually is. Whether it was Éponine or Grantaire’s absence Enjolras could only guess, but Courfeyrac’s shoulders slump and he shrugs his coat off to throw it on the couch, as if to fix the problem.

Enjolras steps inside and looks to Grantaire’s door, then Éponine's. They’re both shut, closed off and making the apartment seem colder and emptier than it had ever been.

“I need to go in there,” Enjolras announces.

Courfeyrac glances back at him, and then at Grantaire’s door. “Are you sure?” A small smile flashes across his face for only a moment. “It’ll be messy in there. He had… projects.”

Enjolras nods and marches across the living room, his hand outstretched to take the door handle. “I’m sure.”

His hand hovers over the door handle before he wraps his fingers around it like he’d take someone’s hand.

It opens with some effort, and Enjolras finds a small pile of clothing in the way of the door, but despite that, the room is rather neat. A slept-in bed, a small bookcase, a lamp turned on and lighting up a large book open to the middle. That one scene of life and movement, the interruption of reading a book, the expectation of returning to it, makes Enjolras’ heartbeat speed up. Each beat aches.

There were canvases taking up most of the room. One on an easel, half-finished. The rest leaning against the wall, about a dozen of them.

Enjolras approaches the easel with fear proportionate to staring down the barrel of a gun. It’s a picture of Courfeyrac’s wide smile and Gavroche sitting on his shoulders, paused in the act of tugging his ears. Hecan almost see, in every line of the crinkles in Courfeyrac’s eyes and every minuscule brushstroke of Gavroche’s fingers, a reflection of the care and affection that Grantaire felt. That  _ Enjolras  _ feels.

Courfeyrac comes up behind him and makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “He… He always painted his friends when he got stressed out.” His voice is hoarse, and Enjolras looks back to see tears welling up in his eyes.

He hugs his friend - something he doesn’t do as often as he should, but personal boundaries are erased and his best friend’s tears are pulling at something inside of him. He’s never doubted his love for his friends was anything less than whole and powerful, but he owes to to Grantaire to express it more often. Enjolras can’t paint his friends or draw them pictures on napkins or wax poetic about their eyelashes, but he can hug them.

Courfeyrac clings onto him, curling his fingers in his sweater and wetting it with tears. They stay like that long after Enjolras starts feeling uncomfortable and trapped, like he usually does with hugs.

When they pull away, and Courfeyrac’s sobs have quietened, Enjolras wipes at his own eyes - his grief is quieter but no less overwhelming - and turns back to the painting.

The background is uncompleted. They were in a field for some reason, the moonlight making Courfeyrac’s dark brown curls black.

He walks over to the canvases against the wall and sifts through them, his fingertips brushing the thick strokes of paint and imagining it; Grantaire holding the brush tense, relaxed, concentrated. 

The pictures flow into each other - a cafe, Éponine and Azelma, Feuilly caught mid-laugh with Bossuet, Musichetta’s tarot cards, the city lights reflecting off the dark red wine in the shape of the Hudson, and Enjolras.

It’s shoved at the back and he slides it out, bringing it to the front and sitting on the ground, cross-legged, to view it.

It’s obviously Enjolras; blond hair tied in a loose ponytail, slightly damp near his forehead. His favorite hoody is draped across a chair and he’s wearing a white shirt, only buttoned halfway.

There’s a triumphant smile on his face. None of the anger or exasperation Enjolras had favored Grantaire with. Only a fierce joy that Grantaire witnessed silently. That Grantaire portrayed as the essence of Enjolras.

It’s obviously a post-riot painting. To say it’s radiant would be a cruel oversimplification. The picture is captivating, it  _ captured _ Enjolras in a moment, a feeling, and created him in that image.

“Is this how he saw me?” Enjolras whispers. He wants to touch it but he knows his fingers will tremble.

Courfeyrac rubs at his face. “You didn’t know?” His voice is heavy and weary. Enjolras can’t look away from the painting.

“It… He’s beautiful.” It’s blurted out, and Enjolras wants to say he doesn’t know what he means but it’s clear; Grantaire viewed the world, even the cruelest, harshest parts that always managed to hurt him, with beauty.

Enjolras is finally beginning to understand Grantaire. He didn’t manage to do it in time.

* * *

The Musain’s familiar hum, while comforting, seemed empty.

Everyone was settled down and chatting, but when Enjolras looks around, he sees Jehan staring vacantly at Grantaire and Éponine's table, sees Combeferre  _ fidget _ , hears no booming laughter from Bahorel or pleased huff from Feuilly.

He knows he should stand and talk - Enjolras needs to tell them lies such as “I’m fine” or “It’s going to be okay” but he can barely stand to broach the subject. He had been grilled intensively on recent events by Javert the day before, and his peace and calm is too fragile for his voice to break it.

Joly gives him a concerned look from his table. “Is your arm bothering you?” he asks.

Enjolras shakes his head. “It’s fine, Joly. Thanks for your concern.”

Joly’s eyes soften. “Of course,” he answers sincerely. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ve got some painkillers from my internship.”

“Illegally,” Bossuet adds with a grin. “My man’s a criminal.”

A small buzz of laughter rings through the air, but Jehan is still staring at nothing and Combeferre adjusts his glasses.

Enjolras does the only thing he can and launches into a discussion about politics. Specifically, the political consequences of Tholomyes’ arrest.

“-Lemarque is going to win,” Combeferre says confidently. ‘There aren’t as many third-party voters and she’s been endorsed by almost all of the leaders of minority communities immediately following Tholomyes’ arrest”

The door opens and shuts - Marius stumbling in late, most likely. “She’s also won over enough of the white middle class with her policies regarding-”

“-top shelf, Louison,” a voice breaks though. It’s not particularly loud - in fact, the distinct hush in his tone suggests an attempt at softness - but Enjolras’ mind is blank and he turns in his seat and-

There’s Grantaire.

There’s  _ Grantaire _ . Standing in the doorway, his eyes on the bright smile Louison gives him with a shake of her head.

Grantaire looks back at the rest of them and pales. His fingers tap on his leg, like they do on the neck of a bottle when he’s nervous.

Grantaire is  _ nervous _ and in the  _ doorway _ and  _ alive _ .

The room is silent. Enjolras is fairly certain his breath has left him and he’s fairly certain that nothing matters but the man in the doorway.

Then those  _ eyes _ meet his, that were always piercing, even when his words weren’t and his body stumbled. Enjolras stands so quickly his chair falls over. The sound breaks the silence but does not encourage it to be broken further.

Grantaire gives him a wry, hesitant smile. “Uh. Hey?”

Enjolras walks over to him with brisk steps and it’s a miracle he gets there without looking where he’s going because all he can see is Grantaire. But his body moves of its own accord and stands in front of him.

Grantaire doesn’t let go of Enjolras’ eyes but he scratches his neck. He tenses, as though he’s bracing for impact, and Enjolras’ arm screams but he wraps his arms around Grantaire with a tightness that matches the feeling in his chest.

Grantaire is still for a moment, but that moment passes into the next and Enjolras feels a hand on the small of his back, on the back of his head. A face pressed into his neck, a slight shiver and all of it screaming one thing back at Enjolras - Grantaire is  _ here _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like, I actually started writing Grantaire's pov from when he found out Montparnasse was gonna kill Enjolras but I don;t know where to fit it?? But Grantaire's pov is gonna be taking over from here.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as weeks go, this one hasn’t been the worst Grantaire’s lived through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Grantaire's pov!! I was so excited about writing this that I kinda wrote it all in a few hours.

In his first year of college, Grantaire found himself talking to a reasonably nice girl at a party. Her name was Emily, and they didn’t do much more than make out for a few minutes before Grantaire found himself bored and moved on to another party at Bahorel’s insistence.

But in one single week, Emily found his number from a mutual friend, messaged him pictures of a puppy at a shelter, and asked him if they could raise it to prepare for having kids. She only stopped when Éponine "dealt with it".

So, as far as weeks go, this one hasn’t been the worst Grantaire’s lived through.

It doesn’t make it any easier to see everyone in the Musain, quieter but no less functional without him. They don’t notice him, they barely look up. He notices Jehan - pale and silent, and the guilt finally starts to hit him harder than it had all week.

It’s not like he had any choice but to leave them, and he’s lucky it wasn’t longer.

Louison looks up first, from the bar at the back of the room. She flashes him with a casual smile, as though his arrival is expected, and calls out, “Your usual?”

Grantaire swallows through his dry throat. He scans his friends, some focused on Enjolras - he can’t look directly at him yet - some just sitting there, muttering quiet words.

“Something from the top shelf, Louison,” he calls back, as gentle as he can. He hopes his voice can blend into the murmur, hopes that he can just slide back into his seat and mold back into the group without confrontation. What an ideal thought.

The first person to react is Jehan. Their sharp gaze lands on Grantaire. Blank, for a moment. Shocked for another. They straighten in their seat.

Everyone’s silent. Everyone is staring. Grantaire tries not to meet their eyes, and tenses for something, for harsh accusations or - even worse - a casual dismissal. _Oh, great, you’re okay, R. Anyway, let's go back to making the world a better place_.

He can’t help it - he meets Enjolras’ eyes.The breath leaves him in a feeling of relief; he’s okay, he’s alive, and Grantaire didn’t realize how much it mattered to have to _see_ that instead of hearing it from Éponine.

Enjolras stands up. There’s pain in his eyes, and Grantaire can translate it as betrayal but feels like the pain you get in your chest when all the grief is taken away in an instant.

“Uh. Hey?” Grantaire tries. No one answers. They seem to be looking at him and Enjolras with bated breath.

Every step he takes towards him puts Grantaire on edge further. He’s going to yell at him, tell him he had _no right_ to allow people to believe he’s dead, to put everyone through that pain.

Grantaire can’t take his eyes off him. He looks tired, but that never lessened the effect he had on the world around him.

When he stops in front of him, it’s probably the closest he’s been to Grantaire. If Grantaire leaned forward slightly, their noses would touch. He would finally figure out the exact shade of blue to represent the fervor in his eyes. The location of each light freckle, the details he’s always strived for but never risked getting.

Enjolras’ arms go around him in an instant, pulling him down slightly, his body trembling and his hands splayed on his back.

Grantaire freezes. He had expected yelling, disdain, anger. The shuddering breath against his neck whispers relief, a happiness too big to contain.

Grantaire hesitantly hugs back, and arm around his waist and a hand against his head. He’s overwhelmed by the _closeness_ of this. It’s something he’s longed for but something he was never brave enough to pursue. Being close to Enjolras.

He buries his face in Enjolras’ neck and pushes those thoughts away.

* * *

When Grantaire - eventually - pulls away from Enjolras, he’s given the blossoming of a smile, slowly growing but immediately effective.

“You’re here,” he breathes, as though it was something _he_ had longed for.

Grantaire swallows his happiness down and forces a smile on his face. He knows how good it feels to have your guilt assuaged. This smile has nothing to do with him.

“Of course I am,” he replies as casually as he can manage. He looks over Enjolras’ shoulder and it met with smiles that settle easier in his stomach. He manages to gently push Enjolras to the side to avoid him being bowled over by Jehan, who grips him in a desperate hug, burying their face in Grantaire’s chest.

“You asshole,” they mutter. “You fucking _dick_.”

Each reunion follows that same formula: a scolding and a hug, Bahorel punching him on the shoulder harder than seemed necessary but hugging him just as hard. Joly hugging him to tightly his bony shoulder digs into Grantaire’s throat, Musichetta pretty much jumping on them. Each hug made his heart a little lighter. Once everyone had calmed down a little, they launched into complaints and how much they _missed_ him.

Enjolras just stares at him, and he doesn’t look away when Grantaire glances at him to get him to _stop_. He’s unused to Enjolras eyeing him like this.

Combeferre’s hug is grounding, as usual, and he steps away to say, “Grantaire, everyone thinks you’re _dead_. Your family, your sister-”

Grantaire waves a hand. ‘I called them. The university too. And work. It’s all sorted.” It hurt more than pulling teeth, having to call his sister up instead of telling her in person, but he wasn’t quite prepared to make the trip to London for her. His mother had been more quiet than hysterical, something he appreciated. He couldn’t ignore the emotion in her voice. She had made him promise to call her more often, and he had stared at his cellphone for a long time after hanging up.

Éponine opens the door and steps in, looking around warily. “Is all the emotional shit done with?” she asks.

Grantaire doesn’t miss Cosette’s wide smile on seeing her, and Éponine glares at her without heat.

“You knew the whole time?” Cosette asks, a small frown taking over. “While we were texting?”

Éponine’s glare turns into a scowl. “While _you_ were texting _me_. You haven’t explained everything yet?” she asks Grantaire.

“Give me some time, Ép,” he answers. “It’s nice having people happy to see me for once.”

She rolls her eyes and gestures towards the group, who had quietened in anticipation.

“Where’s Marius?” he asks.

There’s a few shrugs. Cosette looks at her feet awkwardly, shuffling them around. “Said he couldn’t make it,” Courfeyrac answers. “You’ll have to go to his apartment later.”

“Explain,” Enjolras says, ignoring Courfeyrac’s comment. The intensity of his eyes, the _insistence_ of them, makes Grantaire look away.

He clears his throat. “So uh…” He struggles to find the beginning, and moves past everyone to sit down. They all follow suit, dragging their chairs in and waiting patiently. Being surrounded by them doesn’t ground him at all; he glances at the door and finds Éponine standing there, her arms folded across her chest.

“Montparnasse and I had a few drinks after the last meeting we had. He got a text - their next target - and he told me it was Enjolras.” He looks down at his hands so he wouldn’t meet Enjolras’ eyes. “He wasn’t answering the phone so I told ‘Parnasse he had to tell the rest of Patron Minette not to go after him, and I went to his apartment. I told him to leave but… I mean, they were there before we could. Montparnasse shot the window so I could push Enjolras through it and…”

Enjolras shifts and Grantaire looks up at him. “I heard a gunshot. I thought-” He cuts himself off because the rest of that sentence was too obvious to say.

Grantaire shakes his head. “‘Parnasse said Tholomyes’ men might have bugged the apartment. He made it sound like I’d been shot, and that you had fallen to your death, and it would piece together a coherent story with no holes that Tholomyes would believe.” He gives Enjolras a wry smile. “We were banking on you laying low. One of the men said if Tholomyes saw you still alive, he’d go out and kill you himself.” He brushes a hand over his ribs, where there’s still a bruise from him and Claquesous’ _misunderstanding_.

“So what you’re saying is you were in hiding as well?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I was technically kidnapped, but yeah. Babet hit me, and I came to in a shitty apartment somewhere.”

There’s a small silence, and Grantaire relaxes into it before Bossuet says, “Is that all? You just stayed there?”

“Ép and Gavroche were with me,” Grantaire says defensively. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Why couldn’t you tell us?” Feuilly asks. “We would have helped you.”

Éponine straightens. “Montparnasse wouldn’t have let us. He doesn’t trust anyone with his people.”

Enjolras clenches his jaw. “Grantaire isn’t _his_. If it wasn’t for him-”

“We’d both be dead,” Grantaire reminds him gently. He can see the fight building in Enjolras and he’s never tried to calm it before, so he doesn’t do a good job of it.

“He _kidnapped_ you! He pointed a gun at me and he made me believe you were dead!”

Grantaire shakes his head. “This guilt isn’t doing anyone any favors. I mean, I’m not even dead.”

Enjolras stands up, but Grantaire stays seated. “You think this is guilt?” he asks quietly. _There’s_ the betrayal Grantaire wanted to see earlier, but it doesn’t suit the context now.

Combeferre tugs lightly on his sleeve. “Sit down, Enjolras.” He doesn’t stop looking at his friend until he reluctantly sits down, and then he turns back to Grantaire. “Continue.”

Grantaire eyes Enjolras for a few more seconds, out of confusion more than anything else.

“Anyway, I got bored pretty quickly so when I found out you had _exposed_ Tholomyes and he was arrested - I was ready to leave. They wouldn’t let me until everything had calmed down.” He glances at his pocket, where his phone is on silent. “‘Parnasse is still a little edgy about me being out but…” He shrugs. “I have assignments due.”

“Where is Montparnasse now?” Enjolras demands. Cosette leans in, and they all look invested in the answer.

Grantaire is reluctant to tell them, mainly because Enjolras looks like his eyes could spark a flame from the heat in them, but Éponine jabs her thumb behind her. “He’s in the main bar.” She fixes Enjolras with a hard look. “You’re not going to talk to him.”

Enjolras grits his teeth and scowls at the table in front of him. Grantaire has to bite back a smile; it’d be in poor taste but Enjolras is charming when he sulks.

It'd been over a week since he'd seen or heard from his friends but being surrounded by them like this, with their eyes heavy on him and their attention being so  _sincere_ , Grantaire suddenly feels overwhelmed. He catches Éponine's eye as she gestures to the bar and makes his way over there with her while everyone launches into their own conversations.

Louison, who must have waited for an obviously emotional scene to play out before supplying him with alcohol, generously hands him a glass without words. He downs the drink in an instant, and Éponine grabs his wrist when he lowers it.

"Everything okay?" she asks casually.

He glances back at the group. Enjolras is talking to Combeferre but looking at him as if there was a possibility that Grantaire would disappear if he took his eyes off him. When he gets caught, he doesn't duck his head or turn away, but holds Grantaire's eyes for the brief period of time Grantaire allows.

He raises the empty glass in a casual salute. "It is now." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's an open invitation to point out my mistakes. Thanks for reading this for so long and staying with me, you're all beautiful!!!


	6. Chapter 6

It becomes the new normal: Grantaire finds himself being invited out to lunch with Musichetta more often, drinks with Feuilly and Bahorel, video games with Joly and Bossuet. Jehan insisted on staying over one night and he woke up with a mouth full of red hair and poetry written - in Hebrew - across his collarbone.

He can handle Combeferre asking to meet him during his breaks to discuss a wide range of subjects in easy debate. He can handle Montparnasse asking him if he’s seen anyone shifty every hour or so. He can handle Marius’ staring and smiling when he’s caught staring, but he can’t handle Enjolras.

He knows Enjolras was in his room, and saw his painting - which freaks him out late at night. As an artist he paints what’s inside of him. He wears his heart on the end of his paintbrush and there was a _lot_ of heart painted into Enjolras’ portrait.

It’s a little harder to brush it off with all the attention he’s getting from Enjolras.

Frequents texts, things like: _I’m getting coffee, want one?_ when Grantaire gets stuck in the studio catching up on all the work Montparnasse made him miss.

The black text on a blue background telling him _are you having nightmares too?_ , sent at half past midnight a few days after Grantaire had come back had him staring at the screen until his eyes watered. He tried to figure out what was implied, what it meant. Enjolras doesn’t _talk_ to him, and he certainly wouldn’t share a vulnerability like this with him.

He eventually figures it’s a simple question and replies with a simple _yeah_ that understates how Grantaire sometimes plays it out late at night, tossing in his sheets: _him_ falling out the window, Enjolras facing Patron Minette by himself, Grantaire falling to his death.

When Grantaire had first woken up, in Babet’s apartment with Montparnasse’s face inches from his own, he flinched back so hard he hit his head against the headboard of the bed. Montparnasse didn’t seem bothered by his fear, but he kept his distance for a couple of days.

Grantaire stares at his reply for a while longer before tossing his phone across the room. It lands on his pile of laundry, the screen facing up and staring at him reproachfully.

He drags himself up to his chair, turning his lamp on and pointing it at the easel. He doesn’t have a canvas big enough, so it’s rather small, but he starts painting and finds himself adjusting to the size, though it’s a struggle to detail it half asleep.

* * *

When Grantaire wakes up, Courfeyrac is gripping his shoulder and shaking him, and he rises above the blurriness of sleep to squint at him. “Is someone dying?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Probably.”

Grantaire groans and tries to turn away. “Go away.”

Courfeyrac pulls him back. “You painted Enjolras.”

Grantaire grunts a response.

“It’s _brilliant_.”

That causes Grantaire to open his eyes. “Is it?” He glances over at the painting but his vision is still blurry. He yawns, sitting up and slapping Courfeyrac’s hand away. He rubs his eyes a little and peers at the canvas.

“Huh.”

Courfeyrac grins. “Are you going to show him?”

Grantaire gives him a look. “Are you being sarcastic? You’re usually much better at it than this.”

Courfeyrac turns to him. “I’m serious! He’d love it.”

He folds his arms and frowns at Courfeyrac. “Just because he saw _one_ picture of himself that I painted - which I did _not_ consent to, by the way - doesn’t mean he’s entitled to see every canvas I paint.” He isn’t going to rip his heart from his sleeve for Enjolras to stare at it in disdain.

Courfeyrac sits on Grantaire’s bed, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them. “You know you’re like, his favorite person right now?”

Grantaire scoffs. “I’m a constant guilt-trip he’s trying to get rid of by being _nice_ to me. Soon things will go back to normal and he’ll treat me the same as he always did.”

“Do you really want that?” Courfeyrac gives him a knowing look. “Look, I’m not getting involved. You two have always had… _issues_.”

Grantaire scoffs and looks back at the painting. “I might tweak it up a little but… for our final we had to do portraiture representing an emotion.”

Courfeyrac smiles at him. “What emotion are you portraying?”

It’s Enjolras, but it’s not his tight-eyed disdain or his ferocious smile, it’s not anger, resentment, or any other flawed emotion. It’s deeper than determination. It’s looking at an enemy and seeing victory written in their flaws. It’s how Enjolras viewed Tholomyes. For a brief second, Grantaire looked at him and saw it directed at the gun pointed at his head.

“An indescribable one,” Grantaire says vaguely. He grins when Courfeyrac pulls his pillow out from under him to hit him with it.

“You’re as bad as Jehan,” he accuses. “Wait, doesn’t that mean your professor keeps your painting until the end of the year?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t mind. It’s pretty good, so I might get a good grade for it.”

“When is this assignment due?”

“Technically a week ago, but I have an extension. Are you making breakfast? In bed? For me?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac murmurs. “You should show this to Enjolras before you hand it in.”

Grantaire nudges him off the bed with his foot. “No. Make me food.”

Courfeyrac pulls a face at the door. “Just for that, I’m making your coffee decaf.”

Grantaire’s phone chimes, and he looks around to find the screen lit up, tangled in a pair of jeans. He gets up to grab it, and reads the message.

 **[Enjolras]:** **_lamarque heard what happened. She wants to talk to us. We could meet her together?_ **

Grantaire’s groan is so loud that Éponine bangs on their adjoining wall to shut him up.

* * *

Work is usually pretty busy, especially after all his regulars found out their favorite barista - second to Floréal - was back from the dead. But the novelty of having a barista that faked his own death to escape the mafia (a story Feuilly circulated) had worn off and Grantaire found himself spilling sugar on the counter to draw small pictures of dragons in it.

Feuilly peers over his shoulder. “I don’t like dragons if they only have two feet. Wings are not front legs.”

Grantaire jabs him with his elbow. “Didn’t ask. Get me some chocolate powder, I’m giving her a friend.”

Feuilly obeys, and continues to watch him work. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

Grantaire flashes him a grin. “I dare you to lick it up.”

“What the fuck, _no_ , that’s gross.” He pauses. “I’ll do it for twenty dollars.”

Grantaire snickers and checks the clock. Ten minutes until they close up.

The door opens, and a girl walks in. She’s got dark hair and a nose piercing, and reminds him of Azelma.

He glances down at the two dragons, and back up at her. She smiles down at it. “Whoa, that’s really good. Can I take a picture?”

The door opens again, and Grantaire spots a familiar golden head above her shoulder. Enjolras gives him a smile and a small wave.

Grantaire shrugs. “Sure. What can I get you?”

“Just a mochaccino, thanks,” she mutters while she’s taking the picture. She looks up at him and her gaze is appreciative. “I like your tattoos. Are you an artist?”

He gives her an easy smile when he takes her money. “I’m an art student, yeah. What about you?”

“Technological design.” She bites her lip. “Can I… get your number? We could have coffee sometime. Or whatever you want.”

Grantaire doesn’t let go of his smile, but his eyes flick to Enjolras, who seems frozen behind this girl, staring at her with wide eyes. Probably surprised that someone would ask him out, he thinks bitterly, before looking back at the girl.

He leans forward slightly. “What’s your name?”

She blushes. “Oh! Um, Stacey.”

Grantaire holds out his hand. “I’m Grantaire. Sorry, but I’m not looking to date anyone at the moment.”

Stacey blinks and nods. “Oh, right. Yeah of course.” She laughs awkwardly, and when Feuilly hands her coffee to her, she makes a quick escape. Enjolras gives her a small smile when she passes him.

Grantaire glances at Enjolras, who looks a lot calmer than a second ago. “What did you want, then?”

Enjolras colors and steps forward. “You didn’t reply to my text this morning.”

“The one about Lamarque?” Grantaire sighs. “Look, it was hard enough talking to Javert about everything without getting one of my best friends thrown in prison. He’s very tenacious. I don’t think I can talk about it again.”

Enjolras grips his bag strap and nods. “So you’ll think about it?”

“I didn’t say-”

“Aren’t you almost finished?”

Grantaire drags a hand down his face. “Just after Feuilly licks this up.” At Enjolras’ disgusted expression, he clarifies, “it’s a bet.”

Feuilly throws a cloth at him. “I’m not doing it with an audience.”

“I was going to film it and put it on the internet anyway. Did you want something?” he asks Enjolras.

He shakes his head. “I’ve had enough caffeine today. I was going to ask you what you’re doing tonight.”

Feuilly nudges Grantaire’s foot with his own, and Grantaire kicks back before answering, “Just gonna go to the Corinth with the others.”

“‘The others’?” Enjolras repeats inquiringly.

“You know, Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, Marius. He needs cheering up after the break up.” He clears his throat. “You’re welcome to come. We’re just going to be drinking, though. It’s probably not your scene.” Another kick from Feuilly.

Enjolras glances at Feuilly. “No, I would like to come,” he says slowly, as though Grantaire is a small child needing things explained to him.

Grantaire leans forward, staring at him. “Seriously? You don’t even drink!”

“I _do_ drink!” he retorts indignantly. “Just not with you.”

Grantaire scoffs. “Right. So why do you suddenly want to drink with me now?”

“Grantaire,” Feuilly murmurs. “Shut up.”

Enjolras glares at him. “Because we’re friends, Grantaire.” He grits it out in frustration.

Grantaire leans back. “Oh,” he says. He looks down at the counter in front of him, where he smudged his sugar dragons. He sweeps it all up into his palm without looking at Enjolras or Feuilly.

He flashes a glare at Enjolras for a second, but it dies out because he can’t be blamed for his guilt, or how he decides to deal with it. Grantaire just wishes that Enjolras would want to be his friend for _him_ , not for _that_. For someone he was instead of something he _did_ , that he would do for anyone.

He looks up at Feuilly. “I can clean up here, you go with Enjolras.”

Feuilly narrows his eyes. “Are you still coming?”

“Of course I am, if Bahorel’s paying.”

Feuilly takes his apron off and hands it to Grantaire. Enjolras watches with a frown.

“I’d rather wait,” he says, almost grumpily.

Grantaire gives him a soft look. “I’ll meet you there.”

They leave, falling into an easy conversation about immigration policies that Grantaire knows is better off without him.

He closes up shop slowly. Sends Joly a text. Goes home.

* * *

“It’s just.... He’s not even _trying_ to hide it,” Grantaire mumbles. “It’s _so_ obvious that he doesn’t care about _me_ , he’s just…” He gestures helplessly.

“Guilty?” Éponine guesses. She brushes her fingers through his hair. “Yeah. I understand.”

Grantaire twists his head to look at her. “Do you agree with me?”

“ _No_ ,” she snaps. “But I understand where you’re coming from. And where you think _he’s_ coming from. But I don’t think he’s coming from there.”

He frowns and takes the wine bottle from her free hand. “Where’s he from them? Coming from, I mean.”

She shrugs and digs a hand into his shoulder. “Probably somewhere noble.” She scoffs. “The Noble Three. The Golden Boys.”

“I can hear you!” Courfeyrac sings out as he walks out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel. “Happy hour already? Count me in.”

Éponine snatches the bottle from Grantaire’s hand before he can hand it to him. “What’s your tragedy, then? Only tragedians get the wine,” she announces, only slurring slightly.

“Dionysus would be proud of your declaration,” Grantaire tells her. "But comedians get wine too."

Courfeyrac pouts. “My tragedy is the sorrowful lack of wine on a Sunday evening.” He heaves a sigh. “Also, Marius is having a break-up crisis and Grantaire made Enjolras sad so he won’t stop texting me.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Grantaire says, giving the bottle to Courfeyrac. “I turned my phone off. Lets braid each other’s hair and watch _Sex in the City_.” He snorts.

Éponine’s ringing laugh is music to her ears. “I’m so glad you’re not dead, R. You would have killed the world with you. Fucking asshole.”

Grantaire smacks her lightly on the ankle and Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows. “Wow, how drunk _are_ you guys?”

They look at each other, and back at him. “This is bottle number three,” Éponine says solemnly.

Courfeyrac smirks. “It’s cool, it’s just you never talk about how much you appreciate your friends, you just punch them and hope it translates. R never talks about his feelings for Enjolras.” He turns his evil smirk on Grantaire. “What _are_ your feelings on him?”

Grantaire groans and throws his arm over his eyes. “None of them feel that good,” he lies. It _does_ feel good sometimes, when he catches the sight of Enjolras in a moment of pure feeling, like righteous fury, triumph, determination. It’s times like these that Grantaire feels blessed to love him.

“I _don’t_ love him, I can tell you that,” he slurs.

Éponine snorts out a laugh. “R, dude, he called you out on your self-destructive bullshit and you _still_ went back. If that isn’t love…” She frowns and holds her arm out for the bottle. “Actually, I don’t know what love is.”

Courfeyrac flops down on the sofa. “I do!” he announces.

Grantaire glares at Éponine. “Ép broke Marius and Cosette up.”

Éponine slaps the back of his head. “Shut _up_ , fuckass.”

Courfeyrac gasps dramatically. “How the hell…?”

She glares at him. “I didn’t. He’s lying.”

Grantaire snickers and steals the bottle from her, preparing to drink from it but discovering it’s empty. “Okay, I _may_ have exaggerated.”

Courfeyrac looks at Éponine with wonder. “But you still had something to do with it?”

She sighs. “Look, _maybe_ I did. Indirectly. I don’t know! They were fighting a little bit because Marius was a little uncomfortable with her past, and I’m part of her past, so…”

Grantaire shakes his head. “No, no, no, they’ve been _texting_.”

Courfeyrac grins. “Oooh, _texting_ ,” he sings suggestively. “You little homewrecker.” He laughs and takes her hand when she frowns. “No, don’t worry, I don’t believe that. But you have _ins_.”

She gives him a disdainful look. “I don’t even reply.” A look of horror takes a hold of her face. “It’s like Enjolras and Grantaire and _I’m_ Grantaire. Oh god, I need to text her.”

Courfeyrac gently takes her phone when she brings it out. “Not when you’re drunk, ‘Ponine.”

Grantaire stares down at the bottle. The world is feeling rather disjointed, and when he looks up the world shifts a later than it should. “Courf, can you please put on some pants?”

Courfeyrac pokes his tongue out at him in return. “I’m wearing underwear. Are you going to see Lamarque tomorrow? It would mean a lot to Enjolras if you did.”

“And say what? ‘I don’t believe that anything we do matters but congratulations for winning the election?’”

Éponine snorts, but Courfeyrac frowns at him. “You know what we do matters. We literally got Tholomyes behind bars.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Luck. How many politicians have children that are going to wander into the Musain with incriminating information?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “I don't know, but it doesn't mean all our effort is invalidated just because we got lucky once."

Éponine pats his hair comfortingly. "Poor, cynical Grantaire."

"Whatever. We need more wine before I can stomach a political debate any further."

Courfeyrac pats his shoulder as he gets up. "Don't worry, no more politics or activism. Just feelings and booze."

"No feelings, thanks," Éponine mutters. "Leave more room for more booze."

* * *

Éponine is drooling on his hand when he wakes up. Her head is pillowed on his forearm and her arms are wrapped around it, and it explains why his elbow is shooting pain up his arm.

He lies there for a few moments. His mouth is dry and his stomach is unsettled, so he's reluctant to move. He reaches over to brush Éponine's hair out of her face.

"Ép," he whispers softly. She makes a small noise and screws her nose up. "Get the fuck off me."

She grumbles and moves her head up long enough for Grantaire to slip his arm out, and then spreads out on the sofa when he gets up. He feels faint and sways on his feet, so it's understandable that when he notices his phone flying toward him, he doesn't make an effort to catch it and it bounces off his chest.

"You need to apologize to Feuilly," Courfeyrac says casually, sipping a coffee at the kitchen counter and scrolling through his own phone. "And you have work in two hours."

"Fuck. Why aren't you hungover?" he asks suspiciously. He bends down to pick his phone up and almost falls over.

Courfeyrac smirks. "Because Éponine stole the bottle of vodka from the kitchen and wrapped it up in a blanket."

Grantaire squints at his phone as he turns it on. "What?"

"She started cooing at it."

His head snaps up. "Please tell me there are pictures."

Courfeyrac grins widely. "I have better. The videos are on my Snapchat story."

They both look back at Éponine, who's scowling in her sleep, and Grantaire edges away from her. "I'm going to look up how to get blood out of carpet. It's going to be useful for when she murders you."

His phone chimes obnoxiously loud as his texts come in, and he puts it on silent before Éponine can wake up.

He sends a brief apology to Feuilly and opens the rest without reading them. A few from Enjolras, a dozen from Bahorel (which get increasingly incoherent as he gets even more drunk) and the usual moping text from Marius that he sends Grantaire every night. Grantaire would be insulted that Marius, in all his broken-hearted tragedy, identifies with him and looks to him for guidance, but he supposes he deserves it.

"Is it Ép's weekend with Gav and Azelma?" Courfeyrac asks. "'Cause if it is, I have to take all the sharp things over to 'Ferre's. And all of my belongings with monetary value," he adds.

Grantaire hums an affirmative and steals Courfeyrac's coffee, finished it in two gulps as he looks on in open-mouthed horror.

"You're a beast," he exclaims, snatching his mug back and shoving Grantaire. "Anyway, you missed the meeting with Lamarque."

Grantaire sighs. "The meeting I said from the start I had no intention in participating in? Damn, I was looking forward to that."

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "Don't be an asshole. It would have meant a lot to him for you to be there."

"It would have made more sense if you or Combeferre went," Grantaire points out. "I don't see why I had to be there."

"Hmm, I don't know, maybe Lamarque wanted to meet the person who saved the guy who exposed Tholomyes for the slimy bastard he was and was considered dead for a whole week because of it."

Grantaire considers it for a second. "Nah, it doesn't make sense."

"Or she heard how impossibly cynical you are and wanted to witness the Christmas miracle for herself."

"That sounds more like it." He claps Courfeyrac on the shoulder and heads for the shower.

He stops outside the bathroom door and unlocks his phone, scrolling through his messages until he finds Enjolras' thread. His finger hovers over the text box before he types in,  _how was your meeting with Lamarque?_

He's just about to pocket his phone when it starts ringing, and he stares at the  **Enjolras** glaring at him before answering the call.

"Yes?"

"Grantaire," Enjolras breathes. He sounds far too awake and sober.

Grantaire notes the urgency in his voice with concern. "Are you okay? Has something happened?"

There's a small laugh, and Enjolras replies, "No. Well,  _yes_ , but I'm fine." He sounds happy. 

Grantaire doesn't reply. If Enjolras has ever been as happy as he sounds right now, it wasn't for Grantaire's hearing. He wonders how Enjolras looks. Red cheeks, bright eyes, wide smile? Or is his happiness a quieter force on his face, a smaller smile and a lightness to his eyes?

"R? Are you still there?"

Grantaire rubs at his neck. "Yeah, I'm here." He stares at the shower longingly. "So why are you ringing me?"

He can hear the air rushing past the microphone and realizes that Enjolras outside. "Can I come over?"

Grantaire still stares longingly at the shower. "Why?"

"Just - I want to tell you something. Please?"

Grantaire clenches his jaw. "Fine," he answers, and it's not as grudging as he wanted it to be.

* * *

Showers are made to be enjoyed, not rushed, but here he is, rushing a shower. One of life's small pleasures taken away from him from.

He shoves on his jeans and sniffs his shirt, but he decides that it smells too much like vodka with too many wine stains to be wearable. He prays that Enjolras isn't in the living room so he can grab a shirt from his bedroom.

Of course, the fates hate him, and he's caught with wet hair and dirty jeans, nothing else.

Enjolras' face is pink, and his mouth slightly open. Courfeyrac winks at him.

"Uh. Hello?" Grantaire tries.

Enjolras' eyes are tracking his upper body, moving over the designs that climbed up his arm and around his shoulders. Grantaire resists the urge to cover his chest with his arms. It takes Enjolras a moment to realize he had spoken.

"You're... Can you please wear a shirt?"

Grantaire gives him a lopsided grin. "You know, you're oppressing me by making me wear clothes in my own home."

Courfeyrac nods gravely. "R doesn't believe in clothes." Enjolras' blush deepens. "Though I think that has something to do with his fear of doing the laundry more than any kind of political or social statement."

Enjolras scowls at Grantaire. Or rather, a few inches south of his face. "I think this is one statement that can be expressed when I'm not here," he mutters.

Éponine sits up from the couch with a lethal glare that makes Grantaire paranoid shes going to turn them to stone. She walks to her bedroom without a word and slams the door, and Grantaire takes that as his cue to get dressed.

When he emerges, new pants and a sweater in case the sight of his arms offended Enjolras' delicate sensibilities, Enjolras is alone in the living room, reading something on his phone that makes his mouth twist down in a frown. Grantaire seems to be stuck in a loop of wondering what he looks like happy ever since he heard his voice on the phone.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" he asks, grabbing an apple from the counter because it's all he can stomach and leaning against it.

Enjolras looks up, and there's the smallest smile on his face. "Lamarque offered me a place on her team of lawyers once I pass the bar."

Grantaire pauses mid-chew. "No _shit_ ," he mumbles with his mouth full. "That's amazing, Enjolras!" 

Enjolras' smile grows, and he ducks his head in a rare show of shyness. Grantaire takes another bite of the apple to distract himself from the growing warmth in his stomach, which doesn't mingle with his hangover very well.

"I wanted to tell you first - well, second, because I just told Courfeyrac."

"Why?" Grantaire asks warily. He taps his fingers on the edge of the counter. 

Enjolras is silent for a moment, and Grantaire looks down at his apple.

"I don't like you doing this," he says.

"Doing what?" Enjolras asks, his eyes narrowed. 

Grantaire looks up from his apple. "You know - the texting, the coffee, treating me like I'm suddenly one of your best friends."

"You think it's because I'm guilty," Enjolras guesses. "Because for a whole week I was convinced you had died trying to warn me about Patron Minette."

Grantaire nods, and Enjolras presses his mouth into a thin, unhappy line.

"It's not guilt," he insists. "Do you really think that I'm the kind of person to spend time with someone I don't like because I feel  _guilty_?"

Grantaire stares at his apple as though it would give him the answer. "Um. Yes?"

Enjolras glares at him. "That was a rhetorical question."

"You can't honestly say that you  _want_ my company when you never did this shit before," he argues. "You don't give me the time of day, so I'm sorry if I find it a little bit suspicious that you suddenly want to buy me coffees and go drinking with me."

Enjolras looks down, at his hands, before pushing them through his hair and taking it out of its bun. His hair falls down past his shoulders in messy waves, and it seems to undo something in him. He relaxes slightly and says, "I'm trying to understand you better."

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, but he's still fixated on those blonde curls. "Why  _on earth_ would you want to do that?"

He sighs. "I don't know! Maybe because I thought you were  _dead_ and it felt like a part of me was still in that room with you, and I've been trying to understand  _why_ I would feel like that! Maybe it's because you are  _so_ confusing and I want to figure out how you can be so cynical but amazing at the same time." He frowns at the counter. "And maybe I've just started to realise that my life feels better when you're around."

Grantaire's mouth is dry, and he takes another bite of his apple. His heart beats faster - traitorously - because all of what Enjolras said seems to correspond with what Grantaire wants from him - to be closer, to understand  _more_ , to have  _more_.

"It's not about what you did," Enjolras says softly. "It's about who you are." He shrugs. "So I thought I would tell you about Lamarque's offer."

Grantaire nods. He makes his way around the counter and sits on the stool next to him. "So tell me about it, then," he says, and it's a terrifying start.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I never thought you saw me that way." There's something light and relieved in the way Enjolras stares at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't post this chapter earlier - I wanted to fix it up but I put it off because I'm a piece of shit.

It takes Grantaire an embarrassingly long time to figure out that Enjolras hasn't set foot in his apartment since they were shot at.

Enjolras had texted him to meet him at his apartment so they could walk to a poetry reading together - because that was something they did now, and Grantaire would be lying if he said that it wasn't its own brand of sweet pain to be so close to Enjolras. He likens it to drugs - not in the best interests of his well-being but too beautifully addictive to give up. His fingers are tipped with sugar each time they manage to touch Enjolras, his lungs are filled with the absence of breath whenever their heads are particularly close. 

Jehan and Feuilly were going to meet them there, but Enjolras wanted to be ridiculously early so here Grantaire is, at the door of Enjolras' apartment after needling a neighbor to buzz him up. The door, of course, is locked, and Grantaire only stares at it and tries to make sense of it.

His phone starts ringing -  _Ah, Ça ira_ , set as Enjolras' ringtone by Courfeyrac. He answers it without looking away from the door.

"You're running a little late," Enjolras' voice tells him, annoyance prompting Grantaire to imagine the dissatisfied twist of his mouth.

"I'm literally right outside of your apartment," Grantaire replies. "So I'm guessing you meant Combeferre's." There's a pause. "Why didn't you tell me you... you can't come back here?"

There's the faint sound of a door closing over the receiver. Enjolras takes a breath. "I meant to but - you've been dealing with this so much better than me."

Grantaire leans against the door. 'That's bullshit," he snaps. "Just because you  _think_ I'm handling things better than you, it doesn't mean you can't talk to me about this."

"Are you angry at me?" Enjolras asks, amusement in his voice, replacing the awkwardness. 

Grantaire scowls at the other end of the hallway. "Yeah, I am."

"Because I didn't talk to you about not wanting to go back to my apartment."

He sighs. "No, I just - it's your business or whatever, Enjolras. I just don't want you thinking that I would judge you for it, it's rather insulting. Besides," he adds, "You went through a lot of shit. I was jut kidnapped by my best friends."

He can hear the sounds of the night crowd in the streets, which meant Enjolras was probably walking to him. "Are Patron Minette your best friends? Grantaire, they're  _murderers_."

Grantaire winces. "I meant Éponine and Montparnasse. The others creep me out." He's never even seen Claquesous' face, though he suspects that he and Montparnasse might have either a rivalry or a love affair - it's hard to tell with Montparnasse.

Enjolras hums, and there's something about that sound that eases Grantaire's tension. He can still feel the door hard against his back and imagine the apartment behind it, spacious and empty. "It doesn't bother you that he kills people?" he asks casually.

Grantaire slides down until he's sitting cross-legged on the floor. "Sometimes," he admits. "It's hard to explain."

"Could you try?" 

Grantaire narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to call Enjolras out on his curiosity - but he remembers Enjolras explaining his need to figure Grantaire out and if it keeps them civil and makes him happy, Grantaire will oblige.

Besides, with every word Enjolras seems calmer, as though it acts as a distraction.

Grantaire had told him the whole story of his and Montparnasse's rocky friendship by the time Enjolras rounds the corner of the hallway and stops, meters away from Grantaire with some indescribable look on his face. It's almost like reluctant panic, and it causes Grantaire to scramble to his feet.

He strides towards him confidently, but Grantaire knows better. They're inches apart when Enjolras stops, and his eyes are wide when he looks over Grantaire's shoulder.

Grantaire takes his arm gently, and Enjolras meets his eyes. "We can go in together, if you want," he offers softly. He can admit that the landscape behind that door is the habitat of his nightmares and it scares him too, as though they could step back into that moment again and this time everything goes wrong.

Enjolras nods and moves Grantaire aside to unlock the door. His hand is shaking, the keys ringing out harshly in the effort it takes to unlock the door efficiently. Grantaire watches his hand open the door instead of the apartment that is revealed behind it.

Enjolras takes his hand this time, a more gentle and intimate gesture that leaves Grantaire's fingers paralyzed between pulling away or squeezing tighter.

He's pulled into the apartment, and he watches Enjolras. There's a twitch in his jaw, a determined lift of his chin, and a vulnerability in his eyes that someone that isn't Grantaire should be witnessing. Combeferre, maybe.

Enjolras' finger twitch and tighten, and Grantaire follows his gaze to the window. It's fixed, like it was still waiting to be shot and shattered.

Enjolras' eyes are stuck to that area, where he had fallen and left Grantaire to what he assumed was his death, and Grantaire feels the ghosts in this apartment, the ghosts of Babet, Claquesous, Gueulemer, Montparnasse.

"Enjolras?" He fills the silence so Enjolras' fears wouldn't. "What are you thinking about?"

"You did know the awning was there to break my fall, right?" Enjolras turns to look at him, and Grantaire musters up a smirk

"Sure, if it makes you feel any better," he answers.

Enjolras' smile is small and his hands are still shaking, but Grantaire holds onto it and pushed away everything but the look in Enjolras' eyes, the look he was allowing Grantaire to see.

* * *

Floréal is at the counter when Enjolras walks in. Grantaire looks over from where he's wiping a table. Enjolras doesn't look up from his phone until he reaches the counter, and when he meets Floréal's cool blue eyes instead of Grantaire's, he scans the room for him in surprise.

Floréal narrows her eyes at him, and Grantaire stops wiping. "You're Enjolras," she decides. She looks at Grantaire for a split second, and then back at Enjolras. "Grantaire's, uh, friend?"

Enjolras frowns at her hesitation, giving Grantaire a curious look. "Yeah. It's nice to meet you, Floréal." He holds out his arm - the one still healing - and Floréal shakes it, taking in his wince with a considerate look.

Grantaire leaves the cloth on the table and walks over to them. "Flo, stop sizing him up, you're scaring him," he says, throwing a casual arm around Enjolras' shoulder. Just before contact, he realizes what he's doing, but he doesn't draw back.

Enjolras looks up at him with no trace of a frown. "I'm terrified." His shoulders are relaxed under Grantaire's arm, and a few stray strands of his ponytail sweep softly across Grantaire's neck. He takes a breath and regrets is immediately when the smell of his shampoo causes him to fight back the urge to move closer, to lean his forehead against Enjolras' temple and just take him in.

Enjolras meets his eyes with a raised brow and an inexplicably pleased expression. Then again, anyone would be pleased to meet someone like Floréal. Grantaire looks away, carefully taking his arm away and clapping Enjolras on the shoulder like he would do to Bahorel or Bossuet. In a totally platonic way.

Floréal smiles mischievously. "What can I get you, Enjolras?"

Enjolras looks up at the menu as if he hasn't ordered the exact same drink every time. "A cappuccino with three sugars," Grantaire drones. "Because apparently having me in your life is so exciting that he has to have everything else boring as hell to compensate. He eats peanut butter on toast  _every morning_."

Enjolras flushes and tries to hide a smile. "At least I don't have two shots of vodka with my coffee every morning with whipped cream on top," he shoots back.

Floréal laughs and it rings out through the cafe. There's only an elderly woman reading the newspaper and two teenagers taking advantage of the wifi, so they can afford to indulge on a quiet moment. Grantaire starts on the coffee and Floréal takes Enjolras' money with a warm smile.

Every time Grantaire looks up he receives a warm smile from Enjolras or a wicked grin from Floréal, and by the time he's made the coffee, he's feeling like he's close to doing something reckless.

He runs a hand through his hair, leaning against the counter as Enjolras tells Floréal about Les Amis. 

"So this is the group that caused Grantaire to fake his death for a whole week, right?" she asks good-naturedly. Enjolras' face freezes for a moment.

Grantaire huffs a small laugh. "Say it a bit louder, won't you? You make it sound way more interesting than it actually was."

She waves a hand dismissively. "Whatever. Go take your break while you can."

Grantaire follows Enjolras to the table furthest away from the counter.

"I'm not... I didn't expect she'd know," Enjolras admits. "About it."

"You think I just showed up after she thought I was dead and went back to work like nothing happened?"

He sips his coffee. "She seems very protective of you," he notes.

"Does she?" Grantaire replies distractedly. He's staring at the foam on Enjolras' top lip before he licks it away. "Aren't we all protective of the people we care about?"

Enjolras' smile grows wider. "I don't know how you want me to respond to that," he admits. "You're usually so pessimistic. Is this a role reversal exercise?"

Grantaire leans back in his seat. "If you want I can tell you how relationships and friendships are always temporary and conditional, but I don't think it's the kind of morning for that particular debate." He looks out of the window, observing as he sometimes does the people that pass by, the slumbering quiet of Monday mornings being mixed up in the chaos of the city. It speaks of possibility, and it's why he never drinks on Sunday nights. He likes to appreciate it.

Enjolras doesn't look outside, he looks at Grantaire. Some hopeful part of him whispers the evils of temptation; tells him that these looks are insistent upon intimacy, tells him there's a  _chance_ that Enjolras wants to reach out for him when his hands fidget, tells him the soft words are a language of reciprocated desire.

But Grantaire squashes that voice with some effort. Enjolras is intense, he knows this more than most. These attentions are from his latest mission to  _understand_ Grantaire - though it astounds him that he's worth being understood by Enjolras but he takes what he can get.

"My friends mean a lot to me," Grantaire says casually.

"And me? Do I mean a lot to you?"

He looks at Enjolras, at the wisp of hair curling low over his eyes, the bags under them, the curve of his nose that he turn up in disdain of Grantaire so often. He thinks that this vulnerability Enjolras carries with him - to care too much - hurts him as much as it motivates him. It's a yin and yang of complementary aspects, and it's written in Enjolras' face when he looks at Grantaire.

"Yeah," he replies, his voice thick. He clears his throat. "Of course. You mean - "  _everything_  "-a lot. To me."

Enjolras nods, business-like, as though he had gotten a satisfactory answer from a witness on the stand. "Good."

Grantaire looks back out the window and hides a smile.

* * *

"You need to be punched."

Grantaire pulls back from Bahorel's arms. "What?"

Bahorel grins and slaps him on the back before shoving him away and turning back to the bar. "You need a good punch in the face."

"Are you... volunteering?"

"Considering I was hurt the most by your fake death, I think I have every right to that."

Grantaire takes the drink Bahorel had already ordered for him and sits on the bar stool. "My sister has a stronger claim, actually."

Bahorel frowns and digs his phone out of his pocket, typing with a speed that will, no doubt, be lost with every drink he consumes. After a moment, his phone buzzes a reply, and he holds the screen up to Grantaire's face triumphantly.

"Look, she said I can do it for her. Stand up."

Grantaire rolls his eyes and does as he's told. He isn't a fan of pain, and he knows from experience that Bahorel won't go easy on someone just because he considers them a friend, but maybe he's just easily convinced to do stupid things (case in point: Les Amis).

He can't help the flinch when he sees the fist fly towards his face, but he does bite down on a grunt of pain, turning his cheek once the blow hit and keeping his eyes closed for a second. "Jesus  _fuck_ ," he swears, opening the eye that had escaped punishment. "Are you trying to _blind_ me?"

Bahorel's grin is only slightly apologetic. "Feel free to reciprocate should I ever get mixed up in a politician's deal with a hit-man."

"I'd reciprocate for a lot less than that. Did you hold back at all?"

"Stop whining, you deserved it." 

Grantaire jumps at the feeling of another body pressing up against him in his blind spot, and doesn't relax when he sees it's Enjolras with Combeferre in tow and looking mildly amused.

"It looks like you've started without us," Enjolras observes. He focuses on what's likely to be a bloodshot eye with narrowed eyes, but wisely doesn't say anything.

"Drinks, or a bar fight?" Bahorel asks cheerily. "Is everyone here, then? I've been waiting for hours."

Combeferre nods at a table in the corner where Jehan and Marius are both talking excitedly, most likely about German poetry, since that's the only level they can relate on since Cosette dumped Marius.

After another second, Marius' face shuts down completely. Jehan glances at them all in panic.

"Is he going to cry?" Grantaire asks, prodding at his eye until Enjolras grabs his fingers and pulls them away from his face.

"It looks like it," Combeferre observes casually, turning to Enjolras.

Enjolras lets go of Grantaire slowly - it would be unrealistic to think it was  _reluctance_ \- and makes a sort of insistent face at Combeferre. "Are you going to talk to him?" he asks, because Combeferre was astoundingly god at consoling crying people.

Combeferre shrugs. "I was thinking of having a drink with R and Bahorel. You go ahead, though."

Jehan, at this point, looks like they're going to cry themself, and Marius is babbling. Grantaire didn't need a lip reader to know it's about Cosette.

Enjolras sighs. "I can't-"

"You want to connect with your friends better," Combeferre reminds him sternly. "Go talk to him."

Enjolras turns his pleading eyes on Grantaire, and  _wow_ , they're not easy to resist. "What do I say?"

Grantaire tenses defensively. "Why are you asking me? Just because I have a tragic love life, does not mean I'm an authority on consoling broken hearts."

"R shouldn't be trusted with this situation," Bahorel affirms. After a burp, he adds, "Neither should I."

Enjolras' frown is hard to look away from, and Grantaire is aware that he hasn't stopped staring at Enjolras since he grabbed his fingers. When Enjolras pulls away to walk to the table with his shoulders drawn up tight like a man marching to war, Grantaire feels like he's taking a wildness with him, leaving him at once more settled and at a loss.

Combeferre sits beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder in a rare show of physical comfort. "Are you alright?"

Grantaire glances at him. "Yeah, it's not the first time Bahorel as punched me."

Bahorel snorts into his glass.

"I meant with Enjolras. There's something going on, isn't there?"

Before Grantaire can declare that he can neither confirm nor deny  _anything_ and then hide his face in his glass, Bahorel leans forward. "Oh, yeah, I know a little something about that."

"Ba-"

"There's  _tension_." His whisper stinks of beer, and Grantaire wrinkles his nose. 

Combeferre nods soberly. "Yes. I had picked up on that."

Grantaire slumps his shoulders.

"I legit thought Enjolras was going to... I don't know, punch him or kiss him when he came back." That wide grin, constructed to be charming, was shit-eating and annoying, and Grantaire keeps his desperate eyes on the barmaid's back in the hopes that she would turn around and offer him something stronger.

Combeferre nods again, this time with an amused smile on his face. "Thoughts, Grantaire?" he asks in the same innocent way he speaks when he's a move away from check mate.

"You're both batshit crazy and you can buy the next round," Grantaire says. The barmaid listens to Combeferre list off the drinks, some of which were for people who hadn't turned up yet.

"Besides," Grantaire says to no one in particular, "he thought I had died and inexplicably blamed himself. That creates tension. That's enough to make anyone... tense."

Bahorel snickers. "I think 'Ferre was talking more about the tension in the pants-area."

Grantaire chokes on his drink. Combeferre pats him on the back. "Have you had the birds and the bees talk?" he asks with seemingly genuine concern.

"I should hope so; he's slept with enough people."

Grantaire decides to turn his panicked eyes on Enjolras as he talks gently to Marius, wondering if he'll save  _him_ too, and finds Jehan looking back and gesturing at him to sit.

It's not ideal to spend time with a heart-broken Marius who would break down if you mentioned Cosette's favourite  _drink_ , but it's better than the neutral evil vibes he's getting off Combeferre and Bahorel's fondness for teasing.

He slides in the seat next to Jehan, unnoticed by the other two men. "What did you say?"

Jehan shrugs, their cheeks pink. "We were talking about the libraries in Germany, and I mentioned how nice it would be in spring."

"Spring is Cosette's favourite season, then?"

They nod sadly. "I... I  _love_ love, but I don't love..."

"What comes after love? Heartbreak?" Grantaire sees Courfeyrac walk in and look between Marius and Combeferre. He approaches the table cautiously before throwing his arms around Marius; Enjolras leans back with a relieved smile.

"That's a rather pessimistic way of looking at it. Love doesn't always have to end." Jehan is gentle, no insistence to his words. They're not made to be believed in but to be considered late at night when sleep pushes Grantaire away. He nods and looks down at his glass.

"You know," comes Enjolras' voice from next to him, leaning close enough that his breath brushes against Grantaire's ear, "This is the first time you've gone out with us since you got back." Grantaire pulls back to look at him, and his eyes are shining with his smile. "It's nice. Considering-"  _Considering no one thought it would happen again._ He clears his throat. "Why did Bahorel punch you?"

Grantaire shrugs. "Why do you think? I'm actually surprised you haven't taken a swing, yet."

It's too dark to see Enjolras' hand until it's too late, and his fingertips are cold on the heat of his cheek. "I wouldn't," he murmurs. He digs his finger in slightly. "Does it hurt?"

Grantaire grabs his wrist. "Have you ever been punched by Bahorel before? Of course."

Enjolras stares at how easily Grantaire's long fingers wrap around his wrist. There's a long pause where Grantaire is wondering how to control his fingers and let go.  "Courfeyrac told me you painted me. Again."

That clears the mind. He lets go of Enjolras' wrist and pulls away, putting some well-needed distance between them. If being Enjolras' friend causes him this much torment, he's not sure it's worth it. Better to be despised by the man.

"I did," he admits while admitting nothing. His voice is flat and invites no other conversation.

"I'm sorry I looked through your paintings."

"You wanted to  _understand_ me, Enjolras. How can I fault such a noble pursuit?"

He looks up to see a guilty expression on Enjolras' face; an expression Grantaire isn't sure he likes at all. "I shouldn't have done it. If you don't want me to see your paintings, I should have respected that. You've never allowed me before."

"You've never offered before," Grantaire shoots back because he feels he must point this out. "We're not - we  _weren't_ \- aren't... like that."

Enjolras bites his lip as though weighing his options. "May I see it? The painting?"

Grantaire sighs and looks away. "I turned it in for assessment. I won't get it back for a while."

A screen is thrust into his face, and Grantaire blinks before seeing Courfeyrac's grinning face behind it. "I took pictures!"

" _Courf_ , I swear to god-"

"Come on, let him see," Courfeyrac urges, wiggling the screen. Grantaire narrows his eyes at the photo - at least it does it justice. He pushes his hand toward Enjolras, who takes the phone gently, studying the screen seriously.

Grantaire resists the urge to cross his arms and instead looks over to where Combeferre is  _finally_ carrying their drinks to them, Bahorel at his elbow. His mouth goes dry as he takes another sip - he has a sudden need to water and sobriety.

Enjolras' knee is pressing into his and his eyes are reflecting red from the photo. There's a small smile on his face that makes Grantaire's chest hurt

Grantaire nudges his knee. "It's not the _Mona Lisa_ , Enjolras." His voice is slightly strained, and he doesn't miss how Enjolras' fingers tighten around the phone before he passes it back to Courfeyrac.

He turns to Grantaire. "It's beautiful," he says, his smile tearing at something in Grantaire. "You - I never thought you'd..."

The pause drags on, and Grantaire masochistically asks, "I'd what?"

"I never thought you saw me that way." There's something light and relieved in the way Enjolras stares at him.

Grantaire looks away, at his empty glass, contemplating sobriety. The urge is slipping. "Ah. Well, I paint it like I see it." 

Courfeyrac smirks, and Grantaire is suddenly contemplating homicide, as well. 

But Enjolras' earnest eyes draw him in again, and he lifts his hands up in an aborted move before dropping them in his lap. "Are we still on for coffee tomorrow?"

Grantaire glances at Courfeyrac, confused by the non-sequitur. "With you and Courf? I said I would be."

"I'll be at yours at two," he says firmly. Despite this Grantaire feels as though there's something slightly off-kilter, so when Bossuet bursts in, tripping over and smashing someone's glass, he takes advantage of the chaos to lead him to the bar. He finds himself meeting Enjolras' eyes throughout the night and looking away. 

* * *

 Montparnasse is lying half-naked in Grantaire's bed. The shocking thing is that it happens so often that he can't be bothered to be surprised. Besides, it's a good look for him.

"Who debauched you?" Grantaire mumbles, dropping his phone on the floor and toeing his shoes off.

Montparnasse moves over obligingly and Grantaire collapses on his stomach. "It was a hate thing, you wouldn't understand."

"I think I do understand, I hate you a little bit too," he mumbles into his pillow.

It's a lazy and sleepy moment; all they needed was Éponine to curl up with them and it would be just like the early days of their acquaintance, except for the tragic lack of weed.

"Well, you shouldn't," Montparnasse replies lightly. "Considering I'm saving your life again."

Grantaire burrows deeper into his pillow. "You can save your own life by shutting up and letting me sleep."

Montparnasse turns to look at him, resting his face in the crook of his arm, unfairly attractive in his - likely purposefully - ruffled state.

"Listolier's been making noise."

The somber tone of his voice makes Grantaire lift his head and blink at him. "Okay... I'm sure that's bad."

He earns a look of exasperated displeasure. "Making noises about your little activist group. Specifically how a bunch of students put a mayoral candidate behind bars and put him under investigation."

This time Grantaire sits up, realization cutting through his spine. "Wait, Listolier as in Tholomyes' _partner in crime?_ "

"One of many."

"And he wants us all... dead?"

"More than likely."

Grantaire brushes a hand through his hair. "How immediate is the danger? Can I deal with it after my nap?"

Montparnasse buries his fingers into Grantaire's hair and artfully messes it up. "Probably, but I feel like denying you the privilege." While he is too sophisticated to leer, he comes pretty close to it, and Grantaire shoves him lightly.

"I'm not your booty call."

"Come on, R, I spread myself out all alluring on your bed. Can you not at least appreciate the effort?"

Grantaire glares at him. "I appreciated the effort until I realized you're trying to fuck me just after fucking someone else." His eyes narrow. "Was it Claquesous?"

Montparnasse shrugs. "We came to blows," he says with a wink, his grin widening at Grantaire's noise of disgust. "That's actually why I'm here right now. Listolier put out a hit, Claquesous got wind of it and when I refused, he got angry. Anyway, he's probably going to try and kill Enjolras."

" _Why didn't you take care of it?_ " Grantaire exclaims, pulling himself off the bed.

Montparnasse gestures to the hickey on his navel. "What do you think  _this_ is? I thought if we fucked - and when he's angry it's mind-blowing - he'd get it out of his system and just glare at me for a few months. Then he ruined my afterglow by telling me he's going after the mark himself, and fucking left before I could stand."

Grantaire picks his phone up. "So what are you going to do? Kill him?"

Montparnasse waves a hand. "No, I can't kill him, he's too good. I might end up dead instead, which is a scary thought." He prods his hickey. "He never kills during the day."

Grantaire opens his last message from Enjolras, from ten minutes ago.

_**courf said he can't come, i'll be at yours soon** _

He swears and drops his phone. It's almost two o'clock. "You need to leave," he tells Montparnasse.

Montparnasse stands warily. "Why? Is it the cops?"

"It's Enjolras. We're going for coffee, I completely forgot. I'll tell him about Listolier, and  _you_ deal with Claquesous."

Montparnasses' eyes brighten, and he places his hands on Grantaire's shoulders. "You know, I really want to see him again." His fingers curl around the collar of Grantaire's shirt. "I  _did_ save his life, after all."

Grantaire opens his mouth to reply, but he's cut off by a knock on the door. In a split second Montparnasse rips Grantaire's shirt right from the middle, pulls it off him, and darts for the door.

Grantaire starts after him once he's taken a second to stare mournfully at his torn shirt. The fact that it could be ripped so easily means it's probably for the best.

"Enjolras!" Montparnasse greets, his voice sly. Grantaire is stuck in the middle of the living room, bare-chested and holding a torn shirt when Enjolras pushes past Montparnasse roughly.

"What are  _you_ doing here?" he snaps, his posture drawn up tight as though he's gearing for a fight.

Montparnasse smirks at Grantaire over his shoulder. "I thought Grantaire told you. We're...  _friends_." The way he says it implies something else, and Enjolras spins around, finally spotting Grantaire.

For a still moment, Grantaire watches in confusion as Enjolras swallows, his eyes stuck somewhere below his neck. He looks down self-consciously; there's a few meaningless but pretty tattoos, nothing to write home about.

"You're, uh..."

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at Montparnasse, who makes his way around Enjolras gracefully, stopping to kiss Grantaire on the cheek - dangerously close to his mouth - before stealing a banana from the kitchen counter.

Despite the familiarity of this brand of intimacy from Montparnasse, Grantaire finds his cheeks heating up, his eyes fixed on how the defensiveness all at once leaves Enjolras' shoulders. "I'll wait outside. In the hallway," he says, turning on his heel quickly to make an escape.

Grantaire groans and throws his shirt at Montparnasse, hitting him in the face. "What the fuck was  _that_? Are you establishing dominance or something?"

Montparnasses' wicked grin deepens Grantaire's scowl. "It was a bit of harmless playing around, R."

He's thoroughly confused as to why it would elicit a response like that anyway. Maybe Enjolras is freaking out about seeing a man who almost shot him face to face.

Montparnasse breaks through Grantaire's thoughts with a dramatic sigh. "I'm sick of you and Ép killing yourselves over guys that couldn't care less about you. And now.. I'd say Enjolras  _definitely_ cares. Did you see his face? He looked like he wanted to murder me." He looks disturbingly happy at this thought, and Grantaire wishes he could throw something else at him.

"Whatever. Just - don't do it again, okay? I'm setting a boundary, here."

Montparnasse shrugs and starts peeling his banana. Grantaire goes into his room to find another shirt, preferably a more hardy one. He catches his reflection in his mirror, his hair looking like it had been pulled, his cheeks reddened - it would have been easy to come to the wrong conclusions.

He sighs and goes to the door to let Enjolras in - Montparnasse nowhere to be found.

Enjolras is leaning against the wall, texting as fast as his thumbs will let him, his lips turned down. He looks up when he sees Grantaire. 

"Hey, sorry about that. He just - turned up," Grantaire explains awkwardly, locking the door behind him.

Enjolras nods, but he doesn't look any happier. "I was just surprised. I didn't know..."

Grantaire takes in how his knuckles are white from clenching his phone and frowns, stepping forward. "Are you alright? Was - Did it upset you, seeing Montparnasse again?" 

"I just wasn't prepared," he says after a hesitation. He pushes off from the wall and pockets his phone. "Shall we go, then?"

Grantaire nods, but doesn't move. "It's not - We're not... like that," he blurts. He shuts his mouth immediately. It's not like Enjolras would  _care_ if it was or not.

"Not like what?" Enjolras asks carefully, watching Grantaire with guarded eyes.

"Nothing, it doesn't matter. Let's just go," he answers, walking around him.

Enjolras grabs his arm gently but firmly, stopping him. "Not like what?" he insists.

Grantaire tugs his arm but doesn't pull away. "We don't sleep together. Often," he adds, scratching at his neck. "I mean, not for a while..." He trails off when Enjolras lets go of his arm, looking satisfied as he leans against the wall again. After a moment, when it looks like Enjolras isn't going anywhere, Grantaire settles against the wall next to him.

"Are you okay?"

Enjolras shakes his head with a small, bitter smile that causes something in Grantaire's chest to hurt. "I... I  _know_ that I shouldn't blame him. He saved us, he saved  _you_ , and he's your best friend."

"But...?" Grantaire prompts.

Enjolras raises his head. "But all I can hear is that gunshot. And I thought he had pulled the trigger. Then he kept you from me for a week, and he had no right."

Grantaire looks down at their feet. "Enjolras, you can't-"

"Can't what?" Enjolras interrupts harshly. "Can't say stuff like that?"

Grantaire nods, looking up into his face even though it scares him to do so. For what he would see in it, or what he wouldn't see in it.

"I just did. I'll do it again-"

"Enjolras, honestly-"

"I love you, Grantaire." 

He's looking at Grantaire and his body relaxes as though it's relieved, as though this one thing strung him up together and now it's out in the open and not held in himself, and he is free and loose.

"What?" Grantaire finds himself saying in a weak voice.

Enjolras brushes his hair out of his eyes. "I love you," he repeats, though it's more hesitant this time. "And I think - I'm pretty sure that you love me back. Or you  _like_ me back, at least, or I've been reading this whole thing wrong. But I saw your painting and-"

"Enjolras," Grantaire interrupts. Enjolras stops and looks at him as though Grantaire was terrifying and awe-inspiring and this is all  _wrong_ because that's how Grantaire looks at Enjolras. This was away a one-laned street, and with one uttered phrase Enjolras has undone any semblance of direction.

"I... You-"

"Don't say I don't. Please," Enjolras says. He takes a step forward, his hand coming up slowly to brush against Grantaire's cheek. "I can't have you doubting me." His fingers are shaking.

"I never doubt you," Grantaire replies as though it's the greatest truth he's spoken (it is). His heart is being torn off its sleeve.

"You doubt this," Enjolras murmurs. He leans up, close enough for Grantaire to count those eyelashes, to count the number of the sum of Enjolras' intimacy lying in his eyes. "You doubt yourself." He brushes a strand of Grantaire's hair out of his face. "You are  _beautiful_." 

Grantaire's exhale is slightly shaky.  _Beautiful_ meant more than it usually did; Enjolras says this word as though he's describing the shape of Grantaire. He says it as though someone will try to take it from him.

He leans his head down slightly, his lips inches from Enjolras'. He can feel what they need and he gives it; he presses their lips together gently, slowly, giving instead of taking. Giving Enjolras power to pull away, to deny everything.

But Enjolras presses into the kiss, pushing Grantaire against the wall and holding him by his neck. He deepens it, he asks for more, and Grantaire gives it.

Grantaire sucks his lip into a harsh bite that makes Enjolras gasp. He pulls back, studying Enjolras as Enjolras studies his lips.

He's split open and bleeding; Enjolras took him apart and he's empty now. There are words on his lips but he has nothing to say. He waits for Enjolras to leave, to step away and take it all from him. The thought makes his fingers tighten on Enjolras' hips.

Those blue eyes are watching him, understanding him. "We should go," Enjolras whispers. He steals a small, chaste kiss that steals Grantaire's breath away. "For coffee," he clarifies.

Grantaire leans forward, brushing their noses together with eyes open to watch Enjolras' fall shut. He presses a kiss to his cheek, his lips lingering. Enjolras' breath is shaky against his ear.

He pulls away and Enjolras links their fingers together. Grantaire looks down at them, biting his lip. "Okay," he says, his voice raspy. "I have something to tell you. You're not going to like it." Enjolras frowns and he steals it away with another kiss. "We'll deal with it together," he promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally wrote "the smell of his shampoo invades his senses like Napoleon invaded Moscow" and it's the best line I'v ever written. But I took it out because I actually have pride in my work.  
> So this is the end - thanks to everyone who subscribed and read to the end!! Check out my other fics :D

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on my [tumblr](http://montparn-asses.tumblr.com/) if that's something you're into, I love talking to people.  
> My updates will be like, twice a week, maybe sooner if I get impatient and maybe later if I'm busy.  
> I'm posting this on the second of January but it will be the first for all of you who don't live in this pretty country of mine. For some of you, it may even be the first exr fanfic of the year. I am honoured.  
> Kudos are appreciated and comments are beautiful


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